


Light Up The Sky

by bearonthecouch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Anxiety Disorder, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Character Study, Circle Mages, Coming of Age, Corporal Punishment, Depression, Gen, Gifted Learner, Kinloch Hold (Dragon Age), Mental Health Issues, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23880574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearonthecouch/pseuds/bearonthecouch
Summary: "Don't misconstrue silence as safety. There's an explosion inside of me."(aka the origin story of Rhyanon Amell)
Relationships: Female Amell & Anders (Dragon Age), Female Amell (Dragon Age)/Original Male Character(s), Female Amell/Jowan (Dragon Age)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 8





	1. Without Provocation

**Author's Note:**

> "Don't misconstrue silence as safety. There's an explosion inside of me."  
> \- Assemblage 23

Rhyanon kicks at the back of the pew in front of her. Her mother places a gentle hand over hers. She looks up and squirms away from the disappointed frown. She doesn't _mean_ to be bad, but the Chantry is _boring_. She's been here _forever_. She stops kicking, and snuggles up against Mama's side. Mama shifts enough to hug her close, with her arm around her, warm and comfortable. Rhyanon falls into a happy kind of stillness, lulled by the warmth and the gentle repetition of soft voices speaking the language she only hears here. She doesn't know what it means, any of it, but she can wrap her mouth around the words enough to pronounce most of them when Mama does, and that earns her a smile that fills her with pride like a kind of bright-light glow.

"Wake up, little one."

"'m not asleep," Rhyanon protests. She scrambles to her feet, but stays close to Mama. The grownups are talking with loud, angry voices. Da is too. She tries to ignore them and pulls on Mama's hand, leading her to the pretty colored windows so that she can watch the bright sunlight spill through them and leave their patterns on the shiny tile floor. She dances there, watching the colors shift over her skin and the smooth fabric of her dress. It makes her giggle.

"Stop that!" Da barks. "It's disrespectful."

Rhyanon freezes and clings to Mama's dress, but this time she is pushed away. She has to act like a young _lady_ , not a baby. She is nearly seven, after all. Rhyanon crosses her arms across her chest and scuffs her feet across the Chantry floor, taking care to stay out of Da's way. "Why is he mad at me?" she asks Mama. Her voice sounds a little bit whiny, but she doesn't care.

Mama doesn't answer, not until they're out on the slippery steps leading into the Hightown streets. Rhyanon shivers as the cold rain lashes down, soaking her through. Mama grabs her hand roughly and pulls her into the carriage. Da rides up front, with the driver. "He's not mad at you," Mama promises. But she says it mostly to the seat of the carriage, not looking at Rhyanon.

"I didn't do anything," Rhyanon demands, in a huff.

"I know you didn't. He isn't mad _at you_."

"Who's he mad at?"

"Shh, dear heart. Don't ask so many questions."

Rhyanon sighs and squirms and kicks her leg against her seat. Mama frowns, but doesn't make her stop. She tries to see what's going on outside the carriage, but mostly all she can see is rain and clouds. The streets are nearly empty, the shopkeepers huddled under their roofs. When the carriage arrives at their estate, Rhyanon jumps out, landing in a puddle of water. It splashes up onto her dress, some of it even if splatters onto her face. Her legs are coated in thick mud, up to the knee. She grins, until she sees the look on Mama's face, which makes her duck her head and mumble an apology. Mama sends her with Abigail, her nanny, who is old and strict and no fun at all. She scrubs the mud away roughly and puts Rhyanon in a new dress that is even more uncomfortable than the last one, with a stern look and orders not to get it dirty. Rhyanon squirms and promises that she won't.

"Go on to your lessons, then."

"I don't _want_ to," Rhyanon whines. As usual, Abigail doesn't care a whit for what she wants.

"Go on," she insists, pushing Rhyanon out into the hall with a click of her tongue.

Rhyanon scowls and grumbles as she tromps through the wide halls of the estate toward the library where her brother will be waiting with their boring tutor. The pounding rain outside means she cannot go outside to the market or even to see the horses. She's stuck here. With her seventh year fast approaching, the adults have begun insisting that she spend her morning hours stuck with Damion, who is mean to her, and jealous because she doesn't have to learn writing and sums and history the way he does. Because she's only still six, and a girl. But she has to learn the Chant, and that is boring enough. At least she doesn't have to learn it in arcanum, the way Damion does. That comes later. And it means she'll be able to follow the songs and sermons of Chantry services, instead of simply recognizing those few words that stay the same.

Her new dress is itchy and annoying, and the library is cold even with the fire blazing in the corner. Damion is sitting at the small table in the corner, and he sticks his tongue out at her when she walks in. She sticks her tongue out at him, but that's when Ser Brenton turns around and sees. Damion snickers, thinking he's just gotten his baby sister in trouble. But the tutor isn't mad at her. He's failing to hide his smile, in fact. Rhyanon grins triumphantly at Damion, who scowls. Ser Brenton clears his throat and asks her if she remembers the lesson from yesterday. She does, because she has a good memory, and the Chant is easy because _everyone_ knows it. You can hear it all the time, if you're listening. Mama recites pieces sometimes, before Rhyanon falls asleep. The servants pray. And she gets dragged to services almost every morning.

She stands in a recitation pose, close to the fireplace so that she's not as cold, and she manages to stay mostly still as she talks because she knows that Ser Brenton is watching her. It makes her feel a little nervous. She licks her lip and pretends he isn't there, and reminds herself that she _does_ know the words. "These are the truths the Maker has revealed to me," she announces. "As there is but one world, one life, one death, there is but one god, and He is our Maker. They are sinners who have given their love to false gods."

She struggles to remember what comes next, but her older brother keeps the words going, and she starts to remember. Her voice overlaps with his. "Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Ma... Mal..." she stops again, struggling with the unfamiliar word.

"Maleficar," Damion supplies, before she loses her place completely. Except...

"What's that mean?" she interrupts.

"It means a mage. Don't be dumb!"

"I'm _not_ dumb!"

"Children!" Ser Brenton demands. Rhyanon glances up at him. He's still not angry, but he also doesn't let them get away with much when they're supposed to be studying. "Finish the recitation."

"They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones," Damion finishes, by himself, because Rhyanon is still sulking. "They shall find no rest in this world, or beyond."

Rhyanon takes a slate pencil and starts drawing lines and squares and circles. They are shaky and lopsided, but she keeps trying. The rain patters heavily on the window.

That night, she wakes up screaming. She didn't _know_ she was screaming, but when she opens her eyes, Abigail is staring at her with a familiar look that is equal parts worry and exasperation. Rhyanon reaches for her favorite blanket, but her shaking hands cannot disentangle it from the twisted nest of sheets at the bottom of her bed, kicked there while she fought and struggled in her sleep.

"Let me help you, girl," her nanny says. She sits down on the bed and does not protest when Rhyanon crawls into her lap. "Bad dreams again?" Rhyanon nods. Always. Well, almost always. Even when she doesn't remember the dreams and isn't scared enough to wake up, in the morning she often finds her blankets thrown to the floor, lost when she'd thrashed around without noticing. She sticks her thumb into her mouth and sucks on it. In the middle of the night, she gets away with a lot of things that would mean a scolding in the daytime. "What about?" Abigail asks, as she brushes the tears away from the little girl's face. She begins gently combing Rhyanon's hair with her fingers and working it into a loose braid. Rhyanon stares up at her. It must be almost time for the sun to come up, if she's bothering. Almost time to go to the Chantry. She pulls away slightly, and Abigail frowns. "It's just a dream, you know," she reminds Rhyanon. "You don't have to be scared."

"I'm _not_ scared," Rhyanon lies. It's not _exactly_ a lie. She is scared sometimes, because she hears really scary voices that she doesn't understand. They speak in a mix of common and arcanum and something else completely, hisses and screams that pull at her until she _knows_ that she has to get away, and then she runs. And wakes up crying. But mixed in with the scary parts are _really awesome things_. Trees like none she's ever seen in Kirkwall, castles, animals that _talk_. And an awareness that _this_ is her world, not the boring gray everyday-same of Kirkwall. When she touches the air in the dream world she can _feel_ the light. It wraps herself around her and she feels stronger, like she can do anything. She makes things happen in her dreams without trying. She changes the color of the sky. Plants grow and change around her. Sometimes she can trace lights or fire with her fingers, they ebb and flow with an ease and confidence that her stumbling attempts at drawing real-life pictures never come close to touching. The dream-place is filled with music and color that makes her feel happy and _unafraid_ in a familiar sort of way; and she somehow knows, but only while she's here, that this is what the Chantry is trying to recreate with their painted glass windows and organ songs. Like the shaky lines on her slate, it is a frustratingly limited interpretation.

This morning when she sits in her familiar place between mother and Damion, Rhyanon does work hard to listen to the Reverend Mother's sermon and prayers. She doesn't listen _all the way_ , of course - she _can't,_ because she still doesn't know arcanum. She looks around while she's listening, at the light streaming in through the windows on this sunny day, at the templars with fire and swords painted on their armor. Some of them have _real_ swords, the ones that are here to guard, not just pray. Those men have helmets on, and they stand around the room, in shadowed corners. Rhyanon twists around to see one of them, and when his gaze meets hers, she can _feel_ it, even though he's got a helmet on. It feels like something is crawling on the back of her neck. She spins back around and ducks her head. Da sees, and glares at her, an admonition without words that she needs to sit still. The Reverend Mother is still speaking, and Rhyanon hears _maleficarum,_ that same big scary word again. It gets almost-lost in all the rest of the arcanum she doesn't know, but she _does_ recognize the fact that the Reverend Mother's voice has gotten louder and angrier. She squirms and tries to hide, but this time her mother does _not_ hug her.

"Stop being such a baby!" Damion hisses. Rhyanon wants to snap at him, but Da is giving her a Look, and Mama is not being helpful right now. Rhyanon wraps her arms around her knees and settles back against the hard wooden seat. There's a lump in her throat that makes her feel like she's about to start crying, and she doesn't even know _why_. She stays still and silent for the rest of the service. When it's time for lessons, she gets the recitation perfect, which makes Ser Brenton smile and Damion call her a show-off. She starts learning the next part: "All men are the work of our Maker's hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings." She frowns. There aren't any slaves anymore, and Kirkwall doesn't have a king.

"Who _cares_?" Damion whines, when she points this out. "It's just the _words_."

"All men are the work of our Maker's hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings," Rhyanon repeats. "Those who bring harm without...

"Provocation," Ser Brenton eventually fills in.

"Provocation. What's that?"

"It means a good reason," the tutor explains.

"Oh. Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker." Ser Brenton nods, pleased with her quick memory.

"What's a good reason?" she asks, as he turns to work with Damion, who is barely focused on an old map of the Free Marches laid out on the table.

"What?"

"What's a good reason? To bring harm to children?"

"It's just _words_ ," Damion snaps, again. Ser Brenton looks startled, but doesn't answer the question.

Rhyanon stops listening. She squirms and sighs, wriggling and looking longingly out the window and the cold gray Kirkwall winter that keeps her stuck in here. The sun is already nearly set. She has been in the library for _hours_ , trying unsuccessfully to fight off boredom. She sticks her thumb into her mouth and watches the fire. The flames in the fireplace leap and dance, sending out warmth and crackling sparks through the small room. Rhyanon stares at the fire, tracing its patterns. She watches the colors of the flames shift and change, watches the wood burn away to ash. And as the fire dies away, leaving only glowing embers, she reaches out and kindles her own spark. The flames rush to new life, and she smiles, filled with a resonant warmth and a surge of excitement. She plays, and the flickering sparks respond to her command. She holds them in her hand and shapes them with her thoughts. It's easy, and gets easier with practice, until she's laughing as she weaves firelight through her fingers.

Then, Damion pushes her, hard. The retaliation is so sudden that she falls out of her chair, and loses control of the fire, which laps quickly at the rug beneath her, consuming it beyond all hope of control. She cries as the smoke begins to thicken and wrap itself around her, but she is choked far more quickly by her own panic.

Water splashes over her as Ser Brenton dumps the pail kept near the fireplace. Smoke and steam linger in the air, and the scent of scorched fabric is overwhelming. But the fire is drowned.

"You're such a freak, Rhyanon!" Damion yells.

"Are you hurt, child?" the teacher asks. Rhyanon shakes her head. He nods, and takes her by the hand, to go and find her parents.

"I didn't mean it," Rhyanon whines, as Mama picks her up and holds her, even though she hasn't done that in years. The little girl's protests nearly drown out the soft but harsh whispers exchanged between her teacher and her father.

"I know," her mother whispers soothingly.

"I'm _sorry_. I won't do it again!"

"I know," her mother repeats. She plants a gentle kiss on Rhyanon's forehead. "I'm not mad at you, baby." She carries Rhyanon to her darkened bedroom and wraps her arms around her daughter, holding her close.

"Mama, why are you crying?" Rhyanon asks. She reaches up to brush away the cold tears from her mother's face. Her mother shakes her head but doesn't answer, which Rhyanon has already learned is _bad_. She rests her head in Mama's lap, and lets her comb out her tangled hair with gentle fingers. Eventually, she falls asleep.

The colors in her dreams are brighter, the voices louder. They sound like her father, and Damion. They are angry and yelling. She wakes up, though it is still many hours from morning. There is a coldness like ice in the pit of her belly. She shivers and coughs, unable to shake the impression that the smoke of her accidental fire is still clinging to her. She slips out of bed, afraid to be alone and unable to sit still. She creeps through the halls, alert for any of the servants who might send her to back to bed. She freezes when she hears the yelling coming from downstairs.

"That girl is an abomination! I will not have her in this house. Do you have any idea-?"

"Do you? I will not send my only daughter to the Gallows!"

Rhyanon sucks in a great big breath. They're talking about _her_. She creeps forward slowly, carefully. She wraps her hands tightly around the banister and pushes herself up onto her tiptoes, so that she can _almost_ see Mama and Da below her - the tops of their heads, at least.

They're standing in the foyer, and Rhyanon almost can't see them in the dark. But she can feel the tension between them, strong enough to make her cry. She pops her thumb into her mouth and stays perfectly still, knowing somehow that if they see her, if they _know_ that she's spying on them while they talk about her, it will only make things worse.

She knows about the Gallows, obviously. Everybody does. It's the big scary prison in the middle of the harbor where the mages are. The squirming sickness in her stomach gets worse, and cold, heavy fear drops over her, like a blanket. Mages are bad guys, evil and scary. Hated and cursed. _Maleficarum_. That's not her. She's just a kid.

She wraps her arms tightly around herself and makes a promise to the Maker that she'll never ever do that fire thing again. She'll forget she even knows how to do it.

"She can't stay here," Da demands.

Rhyanon waits, for Mama to say something, to tell him he's wrong. But she doesn't. "I'll find... a solution," she says instead.

"You'd better," Da mutters darkly. He stalks away, leaving Mama alone in the room.

"You can come down here, Rhyanon," she says, after several long heartbeats. "You heard that, didn't you?"

Rhyanon nods, knowing it's not _really_ a question. "You're gonna send me to the Gallows!" she yells. It turns into a broken, terrified cry. Her parents have managed to carefully avoid acknowledging that island's existence, but every Kirkwall child uses it as both threat and dare. She's trailed behind Damion and his friends as they snuck onto rooftops to get a better look at the old prison; with its twisted, haunted statues that _feel_ dark and scary. The boys mimicked those ancient tortures and gladiatorial matches, laughing as they teased each other with horribly gruesome facial expressions as the waves crashed below them in the deepening twilight. It was better when there was actually something _real_ to see: the templars dragging in a captured mage, sometimes a hanging. Glorious violence that kept them entertained for days while Damion teased Rhyanon mercilessly, whispering about demons and monsters.

"Rhyanon, I'm not," Mama whispers. She repeats the words over and over again, until she's certain her daughter is listening. "I love you. I'm not going to send you to the Gallows."

"You think I'm an abomination."

"No, I don't."

"Da does," Rhyanon retorts stubbornly.

Mama sighs. "I know," she finally says. "He's wrong." She kisses her daughter on the top of the head, and rubs her back in slow circles until Rhyanon relaxes enough to rest against her shoulder. "I promise, I will keep you safe, my darling. I _promise_."

Rhyanon nods sleepily. Her eyes drift closed.

Morning dawns, clear and bright, the kind of day that she would normally spend outdoors, running away from the servants and weaving through the narrow alleys between the stalls at the market, tromping through the stables without caring at all about getting her expensive clothes dirty. But today, she curls up in bed and sucks her thumb and doesn't move. She pretends to be asleep, and pretends to be sick. Actually, her stomach _does_ hurt, so maybe it's not pretending. And nobody comes to see her, not even Abigail.

Eventually, just before midday, after several hours of lonely half-sleeping, Mama comes in. She holds Rhyanon, kisses her several times, helps her dress, combs and braids her hair. She doesn't speak, as if afraid to break the secretive quiet. Rhyanon doesn't squirm or protest or chatter either, which maybe more than anything proves how much is _wrong_. The room is flooded with their fragile silence.

Questions roll around in Rhyanon's head, but for the first time in her life, she is afraid to ask them. Instead, she rests her head on Mama's shoulder and lets herself be carried downstairs and outside. She tries to pretend she can't see the looks of shock and disgust and fear on the servants' faces, or hear their whispers.

The sunlight hurts her eyes after the dim shadows of inside. The shouts and footsteps of the Kirkwall streets seem far too loud. Mama sets her down, near the front gate of the estate. Da is waiting there, speaking softly to a group of three templars, with their armor and swords. Rhyanon watches them cautiously. She pulls on Mama's hand, trying to get her attention, but unsure of what she wants.

Mama kneels down, so she can look Rhyanon in the eye. She holds her daughter's hands in her own, and leans in close. Her words are meant for Rhyanon only. She reaches up and brushes a stray lock of Rhyanon's hair behind her ear. Rhyanon squirms, uncomfortable with the direct eye contact and Mama's firm insistence that she doesn't pull away. "Rhyanon, listen to me," she says softly. "These men are going to take you somewhere safe."

Rhyanon freezes. The betrayal squeezes tightly around her heart, until it hurts. "But you _promised_ ," she cries.

Mama hugs her tightly. "Baby, you _can't_ stay here," she whispers. Her voice breaks slightly, and Rhyanon can feel her trembling. "Be a big girl, okay? In Ferelden, they'll teach you. They'll take care of you." As she speaks, tears begin to slide down her cheeks, but Rhyanon ignores them and shoves her way out of her mother's grasp.

"I hate you!" she yells.

Mama doesn't even get angry when Rhyanon crosses her arms over her chest and stamps her feet. She's too busy crying to care. One of the templars takes a few slow steps toward them, stopping just out of reach.

"Go with him," Mama says, and now there is a hint of command in her voice. She will not accept argument. Normally, Rhyanon recognizes this and concedes, even if she grumbles under her breath or inside her head while she does it. But most of the time, Mama tells her to sit like a lady, or eat her vegetables, or go to bed. This is different.

"I won't go!" she screams, flailing and yelling. Her fists pummel her mother's leg. "I won't and you can't make me!"

The templar grabs for her arm, but Rhyanon jerks it away. She runs away, but the grown-ups outnumber her, and at least one of the templars seems to have been expecting that reaction. He grabs her before she can dodge him, and holds her tightly. His fingers dig into her arms, and the pressure only grows stronger when she tries to wriggle out of his grasp. "Be still, little one," he says. His voice is gentle, but firm, slightly warped by the metal helmet he is wearing. Rhyanon leans her head back, trying to look up and see something of his face, but this is clearly an impossibility. She doesn't _stop_ struggling, but her protests grow weaker and she squirms only every now and then. But the man still does not let go of her.

"I'm not a mage," she tells him. She doesn't whine or scream this time, she's just telling a fact. One of the other templars, who isn't wearing a helmet, scowls down at her.

"Hush, girl."

"I'm not!" she repeats, her voice growing higher in pitch. Why won't anybody _listen_ to her? The templars ignore her protests. The one holding onto her relaxes his grip a _tiny_ bit, pushing her toward his horse.

She stops a few feet shy of the big, snorting animal. The horse stamps its feet and lets out a strangled whinny. Rhyanon watches it hesitantly. This horse is big and angry, a war beast, not the docile animals she knows and plays with in the stables. And this horse doesn't like her.

The templar ignores her concern, and the horse's. He lifts her up onto the saddle with rough, purposeful movements and holds her tightly as much to prevent her escape as to keep her from falling. Rhyanon shifts and twists and tries to look back over her shoulder. She wants to yell to Mama, to apologize for saying "I hate you," to hear "I love you" back. Except she isn't sure she doesn't hate Mama for breaking her promise. And she isn't sure Mama loves her. Because if she did, she wouldn't lie to her and she wouldn't send her away. Her words get choked up in her throat.

"Stop that, wouldja?" the templar growls. Rhyanon stops moving. She stops trying to look behind her. Instead, she looks down at the cobblestones beneath the horse's steady walk. It doesn't take long to get to the harbor, especially with the crowds reliably clearing a path for them. There are curses and jeers and people shouting encouragement to the templars, until one of them, riding on another horse behind Rhyanon, calls for silence. The citizens of Kirkwall mostly listen, though there is restive murmuring and tension, like water about to boil, and the conversation starts up before their horses move barely a few steps. They carry the uncomfortable quiet with them, like a bubble.

It follows them onto a modest ship filled mostly with Marchers: hard, angry-looking sailors that Rhyanon flinches away from. "You'll keep her in hand," the captain of the ship orders. His eye flicks over Rhyanon as though he barely sees her, and locks onto the templar holding Rhyanon, who is apparently the one in charge.

"We will," the templar agrees. He yanks her arm, hard, as if to prove his point.

The captain grunts, and nods toward the hold where they'll spend most of their time, out of the way of the ship's crew. The templar shoves Rhyanon ahead of him, into the darkness. Down here there is no way of knowing when they leave the city's docks, except that she can feel it. The uneasy motion makes her stomach hurt. It's barely noticeable at first, but it gets worse as the ship picks up speed, moving out into the open sea and its rough waters. She curls her knees up close to her chest and squeezes her eyes shut, but she can still hear the loud, chaotic shouting of the people all around her, and a tangle of unpleasant smells chokes her. Her head spins. She scrambles to her hands and knees in time to vomit, over and over again. She shakes and cries as her stomach empties itself.

"Little bitch!" the templar snaps. He yanks her up, and she realizes that some of her mess has ended up splashing onto his legs, because he was sitting so close to her.

"Leave her alone," someone else orders. Rhyanon looks up, to see another templar. This one has reddish hair, and a stern expression. It's the first time she's seen him with his helmet off. "She's just a child. Can't help it if she's not born for the sea."

"Who asked you?" There is a moment of tension, with the man's fingers still digging into her arm. But then, just as suddenly, he shoves her away from him, hard. "Clean it up," he demands angrily.

"I can't."

"Don't sass me, girl."

Rhyanon frowns. "I'm _not_. I don't -"

Before she can say anything else, the maybe-nice templar finds some rags in his pack, and cleans it up himself. He takes her hand, and leads her up the narrow staircase to the deck. He drops the soiled cloth into the water. Rhyanon watches it splash. Up here, with the wind blowing cold against her exposed skin, Rhyanon shivers, but she feels a little better.

"Drink this," the templar orders. He hands her a waterskin. She takes a few cautious sips. The water splashes over her chin and onto her clothes. "Better?"

"No," she demands stubbornly. Her breathing is ragged, and she feels like she's about to start crying again. Her lower lip trembles. Fear and anger and embarrassment swirl around inside her. The templar sighs.

"It'll be weeks before we reach Ferelden, child. Don't make things harder for yourself."

"I didn't _do_ anything," she insists. She wipes her dirty sleeve across her face.

Water splashes against the side of the ship. Rhyanon watches the waves rise and fall. The templars mostly ignore her, but they're always _there_ , looming and angry. They force her to eat every few hours. She sleeps in fitful bursts. And home gets farther away with every passing hour. The templar hadn't been exaggerating about the length of the voyage. As the days drag on, long and monotonous, she learns how to deal with her seasickness, though it never goes away completely. She also quickly learns to heed her temporary ally's advice, and not make things harder for herself.

At home, she'd often done things she'd known her parents wouldn't like, but more often than not, sneaking around the estate or coming home covered in mud or getting lost in the market just made them laugh and shake their heads. She and Damion fought all the time, he tormented her with vicious teasing, but he protected her without thought whenever somebody else threatened her even slightly. And the servants mostly stayed out of her way. When she cornered them, nagging with incessant questions, they rarely answered except with a polite and useless "Yes, Miss Amell" that told her immediately that they weren't actually listening. She'd follow them sometimes, the ones that she knew, but they only got on with their work while she watched and never let her help even when she tried to. Sometimes she could get treats from the kitchen, the cook liked her. But they never tried to tell her what to do, and she knew, even if it never applied in practice, that they had to do what she said.

The templars don't care what her name is. They expect obedience, even the nicer one. The commands they give are simple: usually variations of "stay put" and "shut up." She isn't allowed to wander on the ship. The third day, she couldn't ignore the restless energy inside her anymore. She was _bored_. So she started walking, crawling and climbing between the beams and barrels of the hold. She wasn't looking for anything specific, just exploring. But the ship's crew slept in their hammocks not far away, and their loud, drunken voices scared her, so she returned to the templars quickly. The mean one was waiting for her, and she could smell the alcohol on his breath, proof that the sailors weren't the only ones drinking. He grabbed her arm tightly and twisted it behind her back, then shoved her, hard, into the darkened corner where she slept in brief spurts through the seemingly neverending voyage. "Thought I told you not to wander off, girl," he snarls.

"I didn't _go_ anywhere," she spits back.

"Willful brat. You'll learn to mind."

"I heard our orders same as you did, Ser," a familiar voice says, with quiet force. "We're to deliver her to the Knight Commander at Kinloch Hold. Unharmed."

"Are you suggesting, _recruit_ , that I don't follow orders?"

"I'm not suggesting anything."

"This... softness of yours isn't doing anyone any favors. Not her, and not you either." He spins around and glares at Rhyanon, tucked into the corner, half shielded by a large crate. "You'll do what your told or you'll regret it, hear?" She nods. By the time they arrive in Ferelden, she has stopped speaking entirely.

The days on land pass in the same repetitive haze as the time at sea. They ride on forested trails and crowded roads, waking before the sun and rarely stopping. Her legs hurt. Her stomach aches. She eats what the templars give her: tough, stringy meat and hard bread. It's usually cold, and it's hard to swallow. And it's never enough to keep her full. They make her work, setting up camp each night: hauling firewood and water from nearby streams. Her hands crack and bleed, then blister. She's still wearing the same dress from Kirkwall, now dirty and torn beyond recognition or saving. The Ferelden winters are cold, and she shivers through the long nights. The field blanket they give her isn't enough to keep her warm. Her head hurts constantly, and after a two days, her nose runs nonstop. Eventually, she sees a tower looming on the horizon.

"That'll be your home, girl." That's the third templar, not her maybe-friend, or the mean drunk one. This one rarely speaks to the others, except when asked a direct question by the leader of their patrol. But he watches over her far more closely then the others, always with a frown, quick to tell her to hurry and always finding some chore for her to do. No matter how quickly she does it, it's never enough.

Mean templar spits a wad of spittle onto the hard ground. "Nice and safe and far away," he sneers. "'Fore long no one'll remember the Amell brat. Scandal all locked up and hidden, and Daddy'll take charge o' the city with no one the wiser. Fuckin' politics. Draggin' my ass halfway 'cross the world. We shoulda just thrown you in the Gallows."

Rhyanon listens to the words but doesn't protest. She's too tired to, and too scared. She sticks her thumb in her mouth and pretends to be asleep.

"How far now?"

"Day's ride, maybe," the red-haired templar replies, after a pause. He doesn't help her anymore, but he doesn't hurt her either. She falls asleep in the saddle, held tight to his chest. He nudges her awake when the afternoon light is fading. Rhyanon groans. Riding is torture to her stiff legs and exhausted muscles, but the thought of setting up another camp is enough to make tears spring to her eyes. They don't fall - she doesn't _let_ them. She slides listlessly out of the saddle and waits. She tries to stay quiet, but she can't stop herself from coughing. To her surprise, the templar picks her up, carrying her in his arms like her father used to. That's when she looks around enough to realize that the forested trails have emptied into a clearing, in which has sprung up a small village. And just beyond that, sunlight sparkles off still water. A lake stretches out beyond the shallow sloping of the land. She can't see where the water ends. Maybe it doesn't.

And the tall tower is no longer far away. It reaches up to heaven. It swallows the sky.

The templar holds her even when they've sat down in a rickety ferry. It cuts its way across the water with a smooth ease that feels unsettling to Rhyanon after weeks on the back of a horse, or stuck in the hold of a ship tossed by rough waves. The water is close enough to touch, and a cold, stormy gray. It laps and splashes over the side of the rowboat to soak her feet periodically. After perhaps half an hour, the ferryman grunts and the boat slams against the shore. There is no dock on this side, only a little spit of sandy beach surrounded by rocks.

The templar doesn't carry her this time. She is forced to scramble up steep, water-slick steps made for people much larger than she is. She does it, pulling herself forward one step at a time, because she's too stubborn not to. And she doesn't want the other templars to get mad at her.

She hesitates just before the huge gate, opened and apparently waiting for them. A few more templars stand just on the other side of the threshold. Rhyanon looks around, trying to get an impression of this place. But all she feels is cold, and it doesn't go away even once they're inside, away from the biting winds. The gate slams behind them with a sudden, echoing crash. Mean-templar grabs hold of her shoulder again. A month ago, she would've kicked him, but she's already starting to forget what that Rhyanon was like.

"So this is the child from Kirkwall, then?" says one of the Ferelden templars, and his words sound strange to her. She glances up, and sees he's wearing armor she recognizes as Knight Commander's. She squirms, and looks at the floor.

"Safe and sound. Jus' like we promised."

An ironic smile flickers across the Knight Commander's face. "Indeed. No doubt the Maker will reward you well for your attention to your duty, Ser." The Kirkwall templar frowns, as if trying to decide whether or not he's being made fun of, but eventually, he nods. "You are, of course, welcome to stay the night here before beginning your trek home."

"We're grateful for that, Ser," nice-templar says. "Truly." The Knight Commander nods again, and the Kirkwall templars quickly disappear, leaving her to her fate.

The Ferelden Knight Commander actually kneels in front of her, and gently lifts her chin so that he can study her face. Rhyanon flinches away, but the man neither chastises her nor forces the issue. "I know you must be frightened," he says gently. "So far from home. But you are safe here, I promise. You will not be harmed."

Rhyanon lets herself believe it, until she feels a sharp pain lighting up her arm. She glances down to see her blood rapidly filling a glass vial the templar holds in his hand. The man closes the vial with a carefully fitted stopper and presses a strip of cloth to the shallow gash across her flesh. "I do apologize for that," he tells her. Rhyanon shrugs. She doesn't believe him anymore.

"Come, child," another man says. This one is wearing dark robes, and he has a thick beard. "Are you hungry?" She doesn't answer, but this mage doesn't just ignore her silence the way the templars did. "Speak," he tells her gently. She nods, slowly. And the mage rewards her with a genuine smile. "Very well. Let us see what we can find to eat. And then we will get you cleaned up, and tucked into a warm bed. I am First Enchanter Irving. You are my responsibility now. You needn't fear the templars. They will not hurt you here."

The old man - First Enchanter Irving - loads her plate with heaps of vegetables and several rolls, along with a very small bit of meat. She eats it hungrily, but slowly, one small bite at a time. The older mage raises an eyebrow. Rhyanon can feel him watching her; his attention is like a focused buzz at the back of her brain. She stops, with fork halfway to her mouth. Her eyes flicker toward his, and she sets the fork down, suddenly uncomfortable. The old man sighs. "Eat," he coaxes gently. Rhyanon takes a few more cautious bites, but her stomach still hurts. After several moments of not touching her plate, the First Enchanter removes it. Rhyanon sticks her thumb in her mouth, and watches him.

"What's your name, child?" he asks softly. She immediately takes her thumb out of her mouth and puts her hand in her lap.

"Rhyanon," she whispers. "Rhyanon Amell."

"Amell, yes... I had heard." _Heard what?_ Rhyanon thinks, but he doesn't elaborate and she doesn't ask. "How old are you?"

"Six," she tells him, immediately, but she thinks about the many long days mixed together in her memory. "Or seven, maybe. I think it was my birthday."

The smile he gives her now is sad, and he rests his fingers between his eyes for a moment the way her father used to. "I am sorry," he mumbles, so quietly she can barely hear the words. She isn't even sure he's talking to her.

But the moment doesn't last. The First Enchanter hastily - and loudly - rinses off the plate she used in a huge bucket of lukewarm water waiting in the kitchen. He then begins to walk, back the way they came. He doesn't tell her to follow, but she does. She almost has to run to keep up with his grown-up steps. He leads her through halls that are dark and winding. They curve around and upward, spiraling tightly toward the top of the tower. Rhyanon quickly loses track of the number of closed doors they pass. She keeps her eyes open, searching and studying, trying to figure out what all these rooms are _for_.

Eventually, the First Enchanter stops, outside a small room with a bed in it, and a bookshelf, and not much else. "Wynne, could you take this one and get her cleaned up? And settled in the the apprentice dorms?"

"My name's _Rhyanon_ ," she insists. The woman the First Enchanter was talking to smiles, and leans down.

"Mine's Wynne," she says.

"Are you a mage?"

"I am. You are, too."

Rhyanon shakes her head emphatically. "No, I'm _not_!" she insists. Wynne picks her up, and brushes a lock of her dirty, tangled hair behind her ear. Rhyanon freezes. The casual ease of the action reminds her so much of her mother that she begins to cry, with great hiccuping sobs that she has no hope of controlling.

"Oh, my dear," Wynne whispers. She coos meaningless words of encouragement and rubs her hands in slow circles on the child's back. Wynne carries her to a bathroom, filled with smooth white tubs. Rhyanon watches in fascination as the woman casually manipulates ice and fire to fill the bath. A familiar calling song and twisted weaves of energy wrap themselves around Rhyanon. They make her feel warmer. Less alone. Wynne helps her to pull off her tattered and dirty dress, then deposits her into the tub of water. "There, you see," she says softly, as she washes Rhyanon's hair. "You do belong here."

The water in the bathtub grows dark with dirt, and Rhyanon hisses in protest as the soap stings the cuts covering her hands - and the long, straight-line gash on her arm where the Knight Commander had sliced her skin with his knife. Wynne traces that line gently and shakes her head.

"What'd he do that for?" Rhyanon asks. Wynne just smiles, although it's the kind of sad, fake "everything's going to be alright" smile grownups use when it _isn't._

"It didn't hurt too badly, did it?" she asks.

Rhyanon shakes her head, although Wynne probably doesn't see it. The older mage is too busy concentrating. Rhyanon can feel the same stirring of energy gathering itself. The woman's fingers brush over her skin, trailing a cool blue light. The cut is shallow and takes only a few seconds to close. When Wynne removes her touch, there is no sign the wound was ever there at all. Rhyanon stares at her smooth, unmarked arm in wonder.

Wynne helps her dress as the water drains from the tub. The robes are worn and too large for her. The sleeves hang down for a couple of inches past her fingers, and she nearly trips over the bottom with every step. But they are warm and comfortable. After her Kirkwall dress, these clothes feel almost like a blanket wrapped around her. The heavy, humid air of the bathroom makes her eyelids droop. Wynne smiles reassuringly, and takes her hand. "Come on. Let's find you a bed."

The room Wynne leads her to is large and crowded with bunks, though only a few of them are occupied, with older children flipping through books or talking in hushed voices. Those voices grow suddenly quiet when Wynne enters the room. The Senior Enchanter smiles. "I'm not here to get anyone in trouble," she assures them.

"It's a new kid," one boy announces emotionlessly. Rhyanon clings to Wynne as the other apprentices glance her way, but most of them quickly return to their own concerns. No one speaks to her. She sticks her thumb into her mouth and crawls into the bed Wynne indicates, a lower bunk shoved into a corner near the door. When she looks up, the older woman is gone.


	2. Sound of Silence

Rhyanon falls asleep easily, not even bothering to pull the thin blankets over herself. When she wakes up, a grayish light from arrow-slit windows far across the room are the only proof of daytime. They are too high up to look out properly, even if you stretched from a top bunk.

One of the older girls kicks her bunk. "Get up," she insists. "I'm s'posed to show you where to go. You don't want to be late." Rhyanon scrambles to sit up, then stands when the girl doesn't wander away. She sighs heavily. "Here," she says, helping Rhyanon to smooth her robes. She combs through the younger girl's hair with her fingers. "You have to look presentable. Wynne will probably bring you a second set of robes later, but you'll have to wear these for now. Make your bed. You have to keep things clean." Rhyanon frowns. She tries to fix her blankets but they still look lopsided and bumpy. The older girl shoves her out of the way and does it for her, tucking the corners in tightly and making sure the fabric is perfectly smooth. "Figure it out, later, because I'm not helping you again," she orders. Rhyanon nods. Her stomach starts to hurt. "There's breakfast first, then Chapel. Class. Lunch. Then class again. Pay attention. Don't talk unless someone asks you something, and make sure you're polite. Don't provoke the templars. Do what they tell you. They don't usually bother the little kids, but..." she suddenly trails off. She squeezes Rhyanon's hand, and gives her another one of those fake smiles. "You'll get the hang of it. What's your name?"

"Rhyanon," she answers, very softly.

"You don't sound like you're from here."

Rhyanon shakes her head. "I'm not. I'm from Kirkwall."

"Really?" Rhyanon nods agreement, though it wasn't really an asking-question. The older girl blows out a breath. "Okay. But that doesn't matter anymore. Try to forget, okay? It'll make it easier. Don't talk about other places, especially when the templars are around. All of us are the same now."

"But -"

The girl squeezes her hand, hard, until Rhyanon looks up to tell her stop. "No buts. That's the most important thing. You belong here. It's better if you just get used to it now."

Rhyanon yanks her arm out of the older girl's grasp and huddles inside her too-large robes. She drags her feet along the stone floors, deliberately scuffing footsteps just to hear _something_ break the silence. The other apprentices glare at her, and one shoves her, hard, nearly slamming her against the rough, bare wall. She ducks under the threat, used to running from her older brother. But she falls into line. Her eyes scan the walls, but there's nothing to see. Dim, flickering torchlight, faded tapestries few and far between. And templars scattered all along the way.

The chapel is much darker and smaller than the Kirkwall Chantry, but still brighter than the stone hallways of the rest of the Tower. Sunlight blankets the room - though it is filtered through thick colored glass windows that you still can't actually _see_ out of. Rhyanon stretches up on tiptoe, trying to look anyway.

"Sit down," someone hisses. She feels small fingers - her size - wrapping around her wrist. The child _pulls_ , and she nearly falls onto the hard wooden bench next to him. It's a boy, with long, shaggy, dark hair, and a nervous expression which only grows more pronounced as she glares at him. "Sorry," he mutters.

"What's your name?" she asks, smiling. He looks her age, or close to it. Maybe he'll be nicer than the older kids. But he only shakes his head urgently, responding to the warning glance one of the grown-ups is shooting their way. He folds his hands and bows his head and doesn't talk, at _all_ , as the old lady in Sister's vestments begins to preach: about the will of the Maker, light and glory and painful cleansing fire. Rhyanon swings her feet back and forth - they don't touch the floor. At least, she does until the boy next to her squeezes her arm again, _hard_. She shoves him a little, but not enough to hurt. He doesn't respond, and neither does she. She sticks her thumb in her mouth. But she stops moving. She doesn't stop _looking_ though. The Chantry at home was _serious_ , but not like this. The people here are sad, or scared, even the grownups. Scared to move. Scared to talk. It's not hard to figure out why: she's only half listening, but she hears enough to understand that the Chantry people don't even try to lie about what this place is for: it's a prison, to punish them for their sins.

"I didn't _do_ anything," she mutters, not loud enough to hear. She grips her seat tightly with her fingers, to stop herself from squirming and moving, so she doesn't get in trouble.

When the service is over, the adults leave first, then the older apprentices. The girl from that morning leaves with them, but before she does she hisses in Rhyanon's ear that she needs to stay with the little kids, go to class and do what she's told. Rhyanon nods, to acknowledge that she heard the command, though not necessarily that she'll follow it. But the older apprentice is already gone, and doesn't look back, or seem to care.

Rhyanon's class files out in a long, careful line, led by a strict-looking man. She follows the dark haired boy, still tripping over the hem of her too-big robe. They walk down a long, winding hallway from the chapel to a cramped classroom that has no windows at all. The children sit down in hard wooden seats at unforgiving desks. Rhyanon waits hesitantly, then finds one that no one seems to be using. _Still_ , no one talks. Other kids keep sneaking glances at her, but never for long. The boy from the chapel gives her a shy smile, but spins back around quickly, before she can smile back.

Rhyanon squirms in her seat. She sticks her thumb in her mouth.

"Stop that!"

The sound is sudden and loud, ringing through the room. It makes her jump. It takes a long time for her to realize that the teacher - a man in mage robes - is yelling at _her_. She removes her thumb from her mouth so she can talk. "Stop what?"

"You're far too old to act like a baby," he snaps. A few of the other kids giggle, but the heavy silence swallows them before too long. The room is small, not much bigger than the library at home, but this room is crowded, crammed full. In her head she counts how many people there are: seventeen kids, the mean teacher, another mage - not a kid, but not a grownup - in robes the same color as hers. And two templars, hovering near the door. The teenage apprentice sneaks nervous glances at them every time the noise level rises noticeably.

Rhyanon reaches for the book set on another empty desk nearby. She flips through it, picking up the words easily. It's the Chant of Light: history and religion and science and philosophy rolled into one, for them. She knows a lot of it already. "You can't read," the teacher sneers coldly. She glances up, into his narrowed eyes.

"Yes, I can," she tells him.

He doesn't respond, simply flips to a random page and points. "Read it," he orders. She does, tripping over the arcanum, but correcting herself quickly.

"Another noble's brat, are you?" he asks. Rhyanon is smart enough not to answer.

She burrows into her chair and waits for him to walk away. And she bites her lip and curls her hand into a fist instead of sucking her thumb, because she's _not_ a baby.

She pokes the dark-haired boy from the chapel. He's sitting directly in front of her, and she only has to stretch a little bit to be able to reach him. He flinches when she touches him, but she doesn't stop. He sighs, and turns around, ready to whine at her to stop it. But he softens when he realizes that the teacher isn't anywhere close by. He glances at the templars standing guard behind them too, but they don't seem all that interested in the whisperings of a couple of young kids. "I'm Jowan," he tells her, softly. Rhyanon smiles.

She clings close to Jowan during lunch, and the next day, he sits next to her at the back of the classroom. She watches him, shifting in his chair, trying so hard to look like he's paying attention but unable to keep still. Enchanter Nolan drones on. She stops listening, flips through the heavy book next to her, the Chant. "Now is the Golden City blackened..." she murmurs. The story is scary, but it holds her attention. She watches the other kids around the room. They sit with glazed eyes and half-dead expressions. But Rhyanon quickly realizes that as long as they stay quiet, no one seems to care what they _do_.

The days all begin to feel the same. Long, unnaturally silent hours without sunlight. She shares a slate with Jowan and struggles to form her letters neatly enough. But so does he, and when she asks him he tells her he's been in the tower for years, since he was five. And he's older than her - nearly nine, but he's so scrawny that it's hard to tell. And he tells her he's not any good at magic - that's why he's still in the baby class.

Their class in the afternoon is supposed to be about practical magic, but as far as she can tell, that just means sitting at the same hard wooden desks _watching_ Enchanter Nolan cast spells and tell them they're not allowed. But it wakes her up. When his mana weaves into the air, she can feel it, pulling at her. She reaches out, suddenly knowing what to do. Sparks around her dance and play, and fill her. At least until a sudden heavy _coldness_ falls over her, making her cry. It _hurts_. It sucks her breath away. She lands hard on the rough stone floor, and stares up at the templar looming over her. Even without a helmet on, his face is an emotionless mask. The tears sting her eyes and her throat hurts. She wipes her arm across her face and shivers. Her ears are ringing.

"You can only cast when they say," Jowan whispers sympathetically. He helps her to her feet, and stands in front of her, forming a fragile shield between her and the templar. And Enchanter Nolan, who sneers down at her.

"You must learn to control yourself, girl." Rhyanon nods, still shaken.

That night, she dreams. For the first time since she got to the tower, she hears the old voices, mixed with new ones, the same words but clearer. Now, she's able to define these things she's touching, with words like 'demon' and 'abomination.' She recognizes the doomed city at the horizon, blackening everything it touches, and she feels little desire to reach out to manipulate the twisted trees and eerie wisps of light. Yet she wanders the neverending pathways for hours that seem like seconds, or the other way around. Because the only thing that scares her more than those barely-perceptible voices is the _silence,_ when the templar's touch took them away from her.

She can no longer easily tell how long she's been in the tower. She can guess, by struggling to count Sundays, the one marker of endless days turning over to endless weeks, different only because there are no classes, simply longer Chantry services and different chores. Her memories of Kirkwall are already fading, overwritten by new habits that ingrain themselves into her muscle quickly: Awake before the first hints of grey light pierce the darkness of the tower. Wash, dress, make her bed, eat what's put in front of her. Kneel obediently in the chapel, pray for deliverance from sins no seven-year-old could comprehend, much less commit. Sit still and silent. Don't complain or cry, unless you want something to cry about. She stops asking questions. Her stomach hurts, her steps drag, she feels constantly _cold_. She misses sunlight.

She drags herself into the dining hall, exhausted after another long day filled with heavy silence and unspoken threats. Her stomach growls, and she squirms a little in her seat until, next to her, she feels Jowan tense. She throws him a questioning glance. He nods toward the door, where a commotion is starting to be obvious. Rhyanon quickly slips off of the long bench. She's small enough still to weave through the aisles between crowded tables to get a clear view of the confrontation.

"Leave me alone!" an older boy spits, struggling to pull himself out of the templar's grip. Rhyanon swallows hard. She knows who he is, everyone does, even though they've never _talked_. Anders has gotten into more trouble in less than a year than most of the senior enchanters have managed in a lifetime. He fights, he acts up in chapel, he never goes to class; his insolence and disobedience only seem to be fueled by the constant punishments the templars dish out. Rhyanon is sure he must be the only eleven-year-old, if not the only mage in _history_ , who refers to the Knight Commander by first name, like their appointments are something he looks forward to. And Jowan is friends with him, sort of, when he's not terrified of being branded guilty by association. She isn't friends with either of them, not _really_ , she doesn't _have_ any friends. But she realizes she cares about what happens to him.

"I caught this one skipping class again," the templar sneers. "Sneaking around. Up to no good, no doubt."

"I was in the _library_."

"You were supposed to be with me, were you not?" Rhyanon glances up when she hears the familiar harsh snap of her teacher's voice. As she watches, the apprentice holds the enchanter's gaze and refuses to blink or submit. Enchanter Nolan sighs. "You've got talent, Anders, if you'd _use_ it for something. If you could be trusted to show a little self-discipline, perhaps you'd be _teaching_ the new students instead of being held back with them." He nods to the templar. "Unfortunately, my lessons don't seem to be enough to get through to this one. I leave his appropriate discipline to your discretion, Ser."

"I didn't even _do_ anything!" Anders yells, at the same time as Rhyanon shouts "That's not fair!"

Enchanter Nolan's eyes narrow. "Sit down, girl," he orders, with a dangerously quiet voice. Rhyanon tries to enter a staring contest with him the way the other apprentice did, but she breaks after a moment, looking down at the floor. "I said _sit down_ , Amell," the Enchanter repeats. Rhyanon shakes her head. "Hold out your hand."

She knows why. She's seen him do it enough times in their classroom. She doesn't _want_ to, and her stomach starts to squirm.

"Oh, come on," the older boy demands. "Lay off her. I'm the one you want."

"If I were you, Anders, I wouldn't be so eager to make things worse for yourself."

"Yeah, well, it's a good thing you're not me then, isn't it?" Anders mutters, _just_ loudly enough to be heard.

"We'll see how that attitude fares after a visit with the Knight Commander," the teacher replies evenly. Anders doesn't answer, caught between mage and templar, neither of whom are on his side. Enchanter Nolan turns back to Rhyanon. "You do not want to get mixed up with this one," he warns. "Go back to your seat. Now."

She sneaks another glance at Anders. "No," she demands.

Enchanter Nolan sighs. "Do not test me, child. You won't win."

Rhyanon stands her ground.

The cane whistles through the air and lands hard, sending waves of pain through her whole body, making it hard to breathe. Rhyanon squeezes her eyes shut and bites her lip, but she doesn't cry. She doesn't break position either, even though every instinct in her body is screaming for her to pull away: if she drops her hand, he won't count it. The pain grows more intense as the seconds tick slowly by. She feels the stick resting against her palm and she flinches, but doesn't move. She tries to steel herself for another blow, but it still catches her off-guard. She curls away from the source of the pain but waits, obediently, for the cane to fall again. It does, almost immediately. It feels like fire. Her eyes start to water, and her breathing comes only in ragged gasps as adrenaline floods her system. She can feel the crackle of static collecting under her skin, a gathering of power that she doesn't dare lose control of. She knows enough to know that if she lashes out with magic, whatever punishment they hit her with will make this seem like nothing.

"Sit down," Enchanter Nolan growls. Rhyanon doesn't look at him, doesn't challenge him. She drops into an empty seat on a nearby bench. The other kids actively avoid her.

She watches as the templar roughly shoves Anders out into the hall. To drag him to the Knight Commander's office for some _serious_ punishment, presumably. Rhyanon tries to send him some kind of encouraging thoughts as she clenches her hand into a fist and holds it tight to her body, though she knows logically that she can't help him, and she can't even explain why she _wants_ to. She's lost count of the number of times she's forced herself to ignore it when Enchanter Nolan bullied some innocent kid in class. She didn't watch, pretended not to hear it, tried not to think about it, kept her head down and stayed silent so that she wouldn't be next, exactly like everyone else is doing to her now. She doesn't blame them, she knows Anders wouldn't either: it's expected. It's the only intelligent thing to do here. Tears still sting her eyes. She concentrates on breathing until the pain ebbs. She's not hungry. After a few minutes, she slips out of the dining hall. No one stops her.

The dorm is empty and silent. She curls up in the corner of her bunk with her back pressed against the wall.

"Here, lemme see," Anders says quietly, dropping onto her bunk. She has no idea how much time has passed. Maybe half an hour? It couldn't have been more, or people would be returning from dinner.

She doesn't look at him. She simply uncurls her fingers, revealing the angry white-red weals cutting across her palm. "It's not fair," she demands stubbornly, as Anders takes her hand, gently, in his. She isn't even sure what she's talking about: her punishment, his, the miserable realization that they will be stuck in this place for the rest of their lives, forced to conform to impossible rules. All of it.

Anders doesn't reply, not in words, but she can _feel_ him concentrating. She shivers as his healing magic flows into her. The blue-glow light feels like ice on her skin. She bites her lip as his thumb brushes across her raw flesh with sparks of cold fire.

"Stop squirming."

"I'm _not_ ," she whines.

Anders ignores the protest. "You didn't cry, though," he tells her instead. "Most girls do. Some boys."

He's impressed, and she can tell. The knowledge makes her feel a little bit better, it fills her with a warmth that spreads out from somewhere in her belly. She gives Anders a tiny, hesitant smile. "It hurt, though," she admits, with a whisper.

"Yeah, I know." He leans in, so close that their foreheads are practically touching. She can feel the warmth of his breath. He tucks the loose strands of her blonde hair behind her ear, making sure she's looking at him. "Enchanter Nolan is a jerk. That's why they put him with the kids. They're trying to scare you. If you piss off the templars, it's gonna hurt a lot worse than a nursery cane."

Rhyanon glances up, meeting his eyes for the first time since the conversation started. " _You_ do it," she insists.

"Because I'm not smart like you," Anders replies, immediately. He tries to keep his voice light and teasing, but it doesn't work. She can feel the tension radiating from him, the barely-checked anger. It's _scary_. He's older than she is, but he's still a kid. He shouldn't feel like that.

She reaches out to trace the bruise already beginning to blossom under his cheek. "How come you don't fix it?"

Anders shrugs. "Can't. They'll use magebane if I try. Greagoir told me."

Rhyanon shivers, and presses her fingers against his cheek, this time directing a flickering tendril of power. But her attempt at healing fizzles immediately, coming into contact with the focused shield Anders hastily throws up, so quickly she wouldn't even have had time to _think_ about it. "Rhyanon. Don't," he orders harshly.

She can feel the pressure of his will overriding hers, stronger and more practiced. She recoils, and wraps her arms tightly around her knees. Her hand doesn't hurt anymore, but she doesn't feel any better.

Anders drapes his arm around her shoulders. "Look, I'm sorry, okay?" he says softly.

Rhyanon glances up at him. "It's not _fair_!" she demands, again. Anders squeezes her shoulder, gently.

"I know," he repeats. He holds her hand in his, running his fingers over her knuckles and the now-healed flesh of her palm. She's aware of how much smaller she is, how easily her hand fits in his as he curls his fingers over hers. "I'm not gonna lie to make you feel better. You're too smart for that anyway."

Rhyanon nods. She curls up against his Anders' chest, as he settles back and lets a wisp of soft blue light trail around them. It dances close around her head; the static pulls at her hair. "It's not all bad," he reminds her, with a smile.

But worry still weighs heavy in her stomach. "I miss my Mama," she cries softly, not caring how it sounds.

"I know," Anders murmurs, again.

Rhyanon takes a shuddering breath and stops crying, again. She wipes her hand across her eyes. "Really?"

He nods. "Yeah, really. I miss mine, too. My father. My sister."

"I'm starting to forget," Rhyanon admits.

"I won't let you," he promises. "Tell me what you remember."

"Rain," she replies, immediately.

He smiles, and traces his fingertip softly down her spine, with gentle pressure. "Close your eyes," he whispers.

She falls asleep as Anders drums soft pattering raindrops on her skin.

"... not that big a deal, Jowan." Rhyanon stirs at the sound of Anders' voice – not loud, but not quiet – in the bunk across from hers.

"Neither is going to class, you know. You don't actually have to pay attention."

"That explains a lot about why you're still in the basic initiate class after three years."

"Shut up!"

Rhyanon listens to Anders and Jowan whispering in the dark. They probably think she can't hear their teasing banter. She pulls her blanket more tightly around herself, but her eyes refuse to close again. She stares up at the underside of the bunk above her: no one sleeps there, for now.

"The library has windows," Anders says softly.

"So?" Jowan replies, after a moment.

Rhyanon flips over onto her stomach and buries her face in her pillow.

She doesn't fall back to sleep, or if she does, it's not nearly for long enough. The sun rises, and they are sent to a cramped, windowless room to learn about obedience and self-control. She and Jowan and Anders sit in class, copying long verses from the Chant in arcanum: sin and death and doom. She writes until the muscles in her hand start to hurt, until she's _tired_ , from sitting still, in the dark, for _hours_. But every time she looks up, hoping for a break, Enchanter Nolan is there, with a satisfied smirk on his face.

Rhyanon scowls and glares at her pen as though it has personally wronged her, but keeps writing. Her pace slows, until it takes effort to force herself to write another sentence, another _word._ The motion of her fingers looping letters across the page becomes disconnected from all meaning. She _has_ gotten better though. After several months of endless repetition, she no longer has to think about how to form the letters properly, or how to pronounce the now-familiar words. She can spit them back on command, and does.

So does Anders, actually. No matter how many times he recites _confiteor quia peccavi_ _nimis mea maxima culpa_ because they make him, he insists that he's not sorry.

He reaches across the table and circles one of the words she's been forced into writing down. _Donum_. ****Gift.**** "We didn't do anything wrong," he scribbles in the margin.

Rhyanon nods, because she doesn't want to fight with him, but she's not sure she believes it, when the smoking wreckage of the City loom in her dreams every night, and the blue-black shadows of bruises linger on Anders' pale skin. He doesn't even try to hide them, though he easily could, with the long robes they wear. His are half undone, revealing the simple tunic underneath, and the sleeves are pushed up to the elbow. The messy state of his uniform is the kind of utterly pointless rebellion that cements his reputation. But today, he pulls his sleeves down and sits up straighter when Enchanter Nolan nears their table. He ducks his head and avoids meeting the teacher's eye and does his work without any of his usual backtalk. No matter what he pretends about not caring, he's hurt and angry and afraid the same way she is.

Rhyanon glances at his parchment, which has a sentence or two of arcanum scrawled in barely legible handwriting, and is covered in sketches, otherwise. He's drawn what he sees all around him, things she's stopped noticing: the flickering flame of the lamp, the precariously balanced stack of books on the desk, a nearby chair with its sharp edges smoothed away by time and deep gouges hacked into its wood by bored students over countless years. She stops writing and stares up at him. "You're gonna get in trouble," she whispers.

Anders shrugs. "Greagoir told me to go to class and stop mouthing off," he mutters sullenly. He sketches deep, dark lines that shapes themselves into recognizable objects, slowly, as she watches.

"Yeah and how long will _that_ last?" Jowan asks, not looking up from his own copywork. This time, Anders doesn't answer.

Enchanter Nolan scowls down at his parchment and Anders refuses to say a word. Rhyanon watches nervously. But the Enchanter merely glares at the boy, and snaps an order for him to recite the Canticle of Transfiguration which he was _supposed_ to be writing. Anders does it, with smooth, flawless arcanum and a triumphant smirk on his face. Enchanter Nolan's mouth curls into an ugly contortion, but the young mage has done nothing _wrong_. Thrashing him for his insolent attitude would only ignite more of the same. Bad enough the younger children already look to him as some kind of hero. So Anders escapes class unscathed.

Jowan trails along behind him, dragging him feet as Rhyanon watches. "You lucky bastard," he mutters. "Any of us would've gotten the stick."

" _You_ never would," Anders spits back. "You never have since I got here." Somehow he makes it seem like a betrayal. Maybe it is. Jowan never gets in trouble because he never breaks the rules. He's fearful and jumpy and leaps to obey orders. Rhyanon wonders how he and Anders ever became friends.

After dinner, they are given the most freedom that they will ever have, an hour or two to wander the halls unrestricted. For the older apprentices, closer to the Harrowing and with much more to study, the time is extended but the practical limitations remain the same: there really is no place to go, beyond the chapel or the library.

Rhyanon curls up in a corner, shielded by the heavy bookshelves all around her. She flips through a book without really looking at it. She drops it on the ground and stares up at the ceiling instead. High, _high_ above their heads, she swears she can see pinpricks of starlight, faint through the warped glass of the skylight and obscured by the thick clouds over the lake. It makes her feel a little bit better.

"Come on," Anders insists, taking her hand before she can stop him. She stares up at the older boy, but he puts his finger to his lips and shakes his head, insuring her silence. He leads her through the twisting stacks into darkened corners, alert to every sound. And he begins to climb one of the heavy shelves with ease, finding places for his hands and feet without pausing to look for them, hauling himself up to the top without fear. Rhyanon keeps her feet firmly on the floor and crosses her arms over her chest, tilting her head back to stare up at him. "It's easy," he tells her. "Come on, I promise. I do it all the time."

"I'm not _scared_ ," the seven-year-old mutters. She isn't; not of falling, anyway. She begins to climb, and her heart begins to speed up as her body remembers _this_ : sneaking and scrambling through the places where grown-up people can't go. She grins, even as her fingers slip against a book sticking out several inches from the edge of the shelf. She growls, and shifts her hand, then pulls herself up with practiced motions. She rests on the top of the thick, solid wood, supported by the weight of a hundred books. She feels confident up here, even though the ceiling presses down so close that she barely has to reach up to touch it. The shelf is nearly as wide as a chair, she could easily sit and dangle her feet from the edge. But she doesn't. She crawls over Anders instead, so that she can see what he's looking at. The older boy is resting on his knees, leaning forward to crane his neck out the small window. He wraps his arm around her to hold her steady, and they sit there without speaking for what feels like a _long_ time.

"I'm gonna get out of here," he promises, as they stare out toward the dark water. Rhyanon rests her palm flat against the cool, thick glass. She shakes her head. Everybody knows you _can't_. "There wasn't any water when I was a kid," he tells her. "There wasn't _anything_. Just the fields." He brushes his hand through his tangled, messy hair. He tells her about the childhood he remembers, constantly moving, chasing the crops: sunup to sundown, and even beyond, snatching too few hours' sleep in rough bunks or barns or sometimes even out there among the stripped rows of grain. He'd run away even then, dodging the boss man, or his father. But his mean clothes and unfamiliar speech marked him as different, someone who didn't belong, even before the fire that revealed what he was. The endless repetition of the days, the impossible quotas, the sunburn and bloody hands, he'd _hated_ it."I kinda miss it now, though," he mutters.

"There's water in Kirkwall," Rhyanon replies softly. And the Gallows, looming there in the center of it, chasing her away from that shoreline before she could ever have known _why_.

Anders tenses suddenly, responding to the soft, smooth sound of footsteps approaching. Rhyanon holds her breath, still and alert, although she knows that templar footsteps, in their booted armor, are louder and heavier. This will be one of the Tranquil, the half-dead _not-mages_ in charge of the storerooms and library. Rhyanon sticks her thumb in her mouth without thinking about it, as she watches this one. And she shivers, feeling her stomach clench, cold as ice, as she recognizes the dirty dishwater-blonde hair, a few shades darker than her own. The unnaturally straight posture and thoughtful movements make the girl seem years older, and there is no spark in her dull, dark eyes. Rhyanon shivers. She wraps her arms tightly around herself, but she can't shake the _knowledge_ \- this girl who had insisted on her first day in this place that things would be alright if she could just _belong_ here has had her magic severed. Rhyanon's stomach squirms.

"She asked," Anders whispers. "It's okay, Melly. It's not because of anything she did."

She pulls away from him and strains to see this broken girl whose name she doesn't know, as though she could erase what's been done just by wanting it enough.

That night, her shoulders shake as she sobs silently, drawing in shuddering breaths until she falls into a fitful sleep. The claws of the twisted trees of the Fade rake and scratch at her, the only trees she sees, anymore.

The next morning, she still can't summon even the barest flicker of flame when Enchanter Nolan demands it. Rhyanon takes a deep breath, feeling her power collect under her skin. There's a slight pressure just below her rib cage, building until she has to push it outward. She cracks her knuckles and _concentrates,_ trying to direct that energy.

"Do it again."

She gnaws on her lower lip and lets her eyes close as she reaches for more power, grasping for whatever she can get hold of. But it seems like the more she _stretches_ , the more it slips away. There are walls up in front of her, making it _hard_.

She shoots a nervous glance at the templars and teachers, just waiting for her to do something wrong. Her frustration wraps tight around her.

"I _can't_!" she whines.

Anders covers her eyes with his hand, and takes her fingers in his. "Just close your eyes," he whispers. "Don't think. Forget about them."

"I _can't_ ," she insists, again. "They're gonna make me Tranquil!" she cries, as she fails, again and again.

"Melly, they will not," Anders assures her, reasonably. She glares at him.

"Easy for _you_ to say. It's easy for you!"

Anders blows out a breath and runs his fingers through his hair. "You can't be scared," he tells her.

When you're scared, you lose control. It is the first lesson any of them ever learn, the danger of allowing panic to rip the fragile barrier of the Veil. It is a lesson taught through object lessons: being forced to fight until they can't anymore, when they are exhausted and empty, drained of all the mana they are capable of wielding. When they reach for too much, the answer is always pain: a smite, and, usually, the crack of a leather strap across bare skin. They say it's for their own good, that it trains them to check themselves so that when they are older, when it _matters_ , they will never lose control. They won't lose themselves to the demons, they won't grab for power they can't handle. A mage who cannot channel _safely_ is made Tranquil.

"I _know_ ," she growls, curling her knees up to her chest, refusing to try anymore.

"Melly," Anders whispers, still holding her hand. "You can't be scared _of_ _them_. You know what to do. They won't hurt you. Try again," he urges. "I'm right here."

She nods, she can feel the knots inside her slowly dissolve as the mana Anders is feeding her mingles with her own. Not a huge amount, just a slow, steady stream that she latches onto and begins to weave together with her own. She concentrates on the sensation of solid warmth he sends her, and she takes a few cautious breaths until she no longer feels as scared. She reaches out, and closes her eyes, and she can feel the flickering spark before it shapes itself, its heat builds up and burns behind her eyes, it is the moment where she has to let it go or shut it down. The panic of the forced choice overwhelms her and she drops her walls. The sudden release of energy leaves her shaken and cold, but Anders is laughing.

She opens her eyes and slowly, _reluctantly_ , lets go of her power. "I told you you could do it," he says with a grin. The tension is completely gone. Rhyanon smiles too. She watches the fire - _her fire_ \- burning through the small pile of tinder and kindling. She can feel the familiar crawling sensation of templar eyes on her, but there is no sense of threat. And she plays with sparks in her hand, wisps of electricity, she does it like she used to, dancing at the edges of the Veil, the colors and voices lap like gentle waves at the edges of her awareness. She sneaks a glance at Enchanter Nolan daring him to challenge or chastise her. She's confident now. He can't touch her.

The teacher says nothing, gives no indication of either approval or condemnation. Anders rolls his eyes behind the teacher's back, making Rhyanon smile.

The door to the classroom creaks open and an older apprentice – almost old enough for a Harrowing, probably, because Rhyanon's never seen him in any of their classes – clears his throat awkwardly. Enchanter Nolan glares at the poor kid. "Yes?" he asks. Somehow he makes the word drip with venom.

"Um..." the boy stammers. He stares at the floor, shuffling his foot awkwardly. He clears his throat and looks up, though he still avoids making eye contact with the teacher. He points at Rhyanon. "The First Enchanter wants to see her."

"Why?" Enchanter Nolan hisses. Rhyanon wonders the same thing. A nervous feeling floods the pit of her stomach.

"I don't know," the apprentice replies. He really does sound apologetic. Enchanter Nolan grunts, and turns his glare on Rhyanon. She no longer feels impressed by her sparks of fire. She ducks her head, and waits for the teacher to speak. "Go on," he sneers. "Better not keep the First Enchanter waiting."

Everyone stares at her as she walks out of the classroom. Even Anders looks worried. The long walk to the secluded offices near the top of the tower feels exceptionally lonely. The messenger who'd come to retrieve her apparently wasn't required to escort her past the library, where his own class is meeting.

Rhyanon pushes the door to the First Enchanter's office open cautiously. Her hands feel sweaty, and she covers them with the sleeves of her too-large robe. She walks softly, clinging to the shadows. Yet when she steps inside, the smile Irving gives her is warm and genuine, and she feels a flickering memory of his careful care her first night here, a lifetime ago. "Enchanter Nolan grudgingly admits that you may be too well-schooled to belong in his class," he tells her. He actually _looks_ at her when he talks, and seems to care about whether or not she's listening. That in itself is enough to hold her attention, to draw her to him. "He tells me your recitations are near perfect, and that you write quickly and well, and without apparent difficulty."

Rhyanon doesn't reply, having spent the morning listening to the Reverend Mother lecture on the dangers of pride, uncertain of the response the First Enchanter is looking for.

"I am... surprised, I must admit," Irving continues. "It is rare that children come to us with any sort of schooling. Even for someone of your... privilege. You are young, still."

Rhyanon shrugs. "I didn't, though," she says softly. "Not really. I just..." she draws in a quick breath, assaulted by the intensity of her memory. "I learned a little bit, with my... brother," she stops, her eyes flicking up to his, aware of her breach of the unspoken code against talking about _before._ But Irving doesn't seem angry. He simply nods, and waits for her too continue. "It wasn't like here," she insists. "But I've always been able to remember things. It just _happens_."

Irving nods thoughtfully. "And it's the same, with your magic?"

"I just know what to do, sometimes. But I..." she shakes her head. "I _don't_ , anymore."

Irving frowns, yet he invites her to sit with him. "I will teach you, if you wish. How to _use_ your magic, as well as control it. I'll give you more practical lessons also, of course, though I promise that you will not find them easy. There is far more to the Tower library than the Chant of Light, after all."

Rhyanon shakes her head, just slightly.

"You _want_ to stay in Enchanter Nolan's class?" the First Enchanter asks, not bothering to hide his surprise.

"You lied," Rhyanon whispers.

"What?"

"You said they wouldn't hurt us."


	3. Counter-offense

"He'll be okay, luv."

"How do _you_ know?" Rhyanon demands angrily. Her arms are buried to the elbow in lukewarm water. The abrasive lye soap stings the still-raw scrapes on her hands, but she barely notices anymore. She scrubs the pots dumped in front of her with an impressive amount of violence. She's had kitchen duty a lot in the four years since she came to the Tower. It's the first time she's done it without Anders, though. And he's not here because what he's done is way worse than anything that can be cancelled out by washing a few dishes. He always talked about running away, but Rhyanon never figured he'd actually _do_ it. Not for real. Not gone-for-more-than-a-week real. Not dragged-back-by-templars real.

Rhyanon's eyes sting. She tells herself it's just because she's got soap in them, because she doesn't want to admit that she's _crying_. Again. Fuck this place!

"I _know_ ," Ada, the middle-aged woman in charge of the kitchen declares, "because I've been here since 'afore you were born. D'you think yer the first to ever go pinin' after some idiot boy?"

"I'm not _pining_. And he's not an idiot."

Ada takes Rhyanon's wrist and pulls her away from the dish buckets, ignoring her limp protests. She sits her down on a kitchen stool and hands her a mug. Rhyanon stares down into the dark brown liquid and shakes her head. "I don't want it," she insists.

"Oh, now," Ada clucks. She begins braiding her fingers through Rhyanon's blonde hair. "D'you really think he'd want you punishing yourself?"

"I should've helped him."

"And what would you've done?"

"I dunno. Something. Anything."

"Something like piss off everyone around you and get sent to me, eh?"

Rhyanon snorts, and despite herself, a small smile creeps onto her face. "Some punishment."

The woman finishes her braid and gives Rhyanon a gentle push. "Get going, girl. But you finish that hot chocolate first."

Rhyanon shakes her head and leaves the mug, untouched, on an unused counter. She finishes the dishes in silence and retreats to the dorms. Or at least, that's her plan. But the halls are never this empty. It's _late_ , late enough that even the older apprentices are under curfew now. Rhyanon walks slowly. She feels impossibly small in the long stretches of shadow between the far apart torches attached to the walls. Even her soft footsteps seem to echo impossibly loudly, with no one else around to swallow or mask the sound. She smiles, feeling, for the first time she can remember, like she has something special in this place. She keeps walking, wandering without a destination, just reveling in the fact that the stone walls look _different_ , in this place where nothing ever changes. She looks without really seeing. She's not paying attention. And she makes the mistake of almost walking right into a patrolling templar. "It's after curfew," a warped voice snaps from behind its metal helmet.

Rhyanon balks. She swallows hard. "I know," she stammers. "I was... helping. In the kitchen."

"Serving punishment, you mean," the templar sneers. He grabs her forearm and drags her the rest of the way to the apprentice dorms. His hold on her is tight enough to bruise, but Rhyanon doesn't try to fight him. She forces herself to breathe steady and not look back as she walks to her bunk. She can still feel his eyes on her as she tucks herself under her worn blanket, still fully clothed.

She closes her eyes and holds her breath until she hears the templar's footsteps fade away. Around her, the little kids, already asleep, snore gently. Rhyanon lays awake for a long time.

She rolls over. Across from her, Anders' bunk is empty. Still. It feels even more empty now than when he was actually _gone_ , because she knows exactly where he is. In the infirmary, not allowed to use magic to heal himself from the punishment she isn't supposed to know about, but does anyway.

She'd obviously known there was a huge wooden post in the middle of the courtyard, because _all_ of them know the details of the tower grounds in a way that only people who _never leave_ can. But she'd never really thought about it, or wondered why it was there, until she watched the templars tie Anders to it. She figured it out, in a sudden memory, right before she saw the templar pick up the whip. In that flash, she remembered home, for the first time in _years_. But it wasn't anything good. She could still feel Damion's breath on her neck as he chased her, up on the rooftops above the Gallows. She could feel the heat of his hand, pressing hard on her shoulder. He pushed her down, so that nobody would see them if they happened to look up, but why would they? He called her chicken because she wouldn't watch.

She _still_ didn't watch, just listened, clearly hearing everything because of whatever weird quirk let sound reach up from the courtyard to the alcove three stories above it like there was no space at all in between. So she could _hear_ the templars talking, enough to know that Anders was supposed to get ten lashes. But she counted, so she knows it was actually eleven. Eleven is how old she is. Eleven probably hurts a lot. Enough to cry. Enough to scream. Enough to keep her up at night, not doing either.

She balls her blankets up in her fists and closes her eyes, and stays awake. About fifteen times a minute, she thinks about going to the infirmary to see Anders, but she doesn't. Because if it was her, not that it ever would be, because she's _not_ _him_ – she's not stupid or brave like him – she wouldn't want him there.

The next morning, she steals a rejuvenation potion from the hiding place in the bathroom that the older kids think she doesn't know about. It doesn't help, though. It just makes her feel even more jittery. Her thoughts are all slow and muddled, and she fucks up again and again on what should be _easy_ spells.

Across from her, an elven apprentice named Dar snickers as Rhyanon tries, and fails, for the third time, to light the simple fire she'll need to weave into a more complex form. When their teacher isn't looking, he reaches over and forms a ball of ice, then melts it instantly, drenching her sputtering flame.

"I thought you were supposed to be _so_ _great_ ," he sneers. "Too good for us." He snorts. "You don't look like much to me."

"What do you know?" she yells. "You don't know anything!" He just got here, a month ago. He still remembers home. He doesn't know what it's like for her, for _any_ of them. And already, the thirteen-year-old from Denerim's alienage has attracted a pack of followers who are just as cruel and violent as he is.

"You don't know anything about me!" the elf spits back. "You don't have a clue, Teacher's Pet!"

"Shut up!" Rhyanon yells, launching herself at the older boy. She pummels him without thinking, lashing out with fists and feet. He's bigger than she is, but he doesn't do much to defend himself. He clearly didn't expect her to attack him. His mistake.

After a moment, the elf _does_ begins to fight back. Rhyanon barely manages to duck as his elbow drives toward her eye. The forceful blow connects with her cheek instead, making her wince. She kicks outward, trying to force the boy backward, trying to gain some leverage. It almost works, until someone grabs her arm from behind, pulling her off of her opponent. Dar stares at her, wide-eyed. He too is locked in the grip of another mage – Enchanter Wynne – who'd been looking for a book in the library, apparently, exactly at the right moment to break up their altercation.

Rhyanon pulls her arm away from the grip of the older apprentice holding her. She doesn't make any move toward Dar. She's not mad at him anymore. But a grim sense of satisfaction fills her when she sees the bruises already forming. It feels good to leave a mark on something. To make someone else hurt.

"Sorry," she murmurs, not entirely sure whether or not she means it. The elven boy just shrugs. He looks about as miserable as Rhyanon feels.

Wynne steers them both to the First Enchanter's office without delay. Rhyanon follows in the older woman's brisk footsteps without protest, knowing better than to believe the woman is offering them a choice. Irving waits for her to leave before studying the two children standing before him. The silence is deafening. Rhyanon shuffles her feet along the carpeted floor.

"What were you thinking?" Irving asks grimly. Rhyanon doesn't look at him. Her cheek throbs, and her split lip stings. She sneaks a sidelong glance at Dar, but the elven apprentice doesn't say anything either. She shuffles her feet nervously. The alienage transplant clearly isn't going to rat her out, even though he _should_.

Irving sighs, but he doesn't seem surprised by the sudden show of solidarity. "Fighting will not be tolerated," he reminds them both, and Rhyanon just shrugs. _Duh_. Irving seems almost apologetic about having to punish her, which makes her feel even worse than the actual caning does. Like now she has to feel bad about making her teachers feel bad? What the hell is wrong with her?

The point is, she's still just as irritable and pissed and jittery as she was an hour ago, but now she's just forced to deal with the aftermath of two fights: one she won, and one she lost. Not that the second one is actually _winnable_. The Circle sucks no matter what she does.

She crawls onto her bed and sprawls out on her stomach, burying her face in her pillow so that she doesn't have to see anything or anybody. Hatred and rage tangle in a bottomless pit deep inside her, and she can't sit still. Tears pour down her cheeks, which is _hugely_ embarrasing, but she doesn't have any other way to vent her feelings. "Fuck!" she yells, kicking the mattress beneath her, which just _hurts._ She stops, and sits up instead, although that hurts too. She hugs her too-thin pillow tightly to her chest, and seethes. Her lip hurts. It still tastes like blood.

She closes her eyes. She has no idea how much time passes, before she forgets to stay still and shifts position, reigniting the pain of a punishment that's meant to linger. _Fuck_.

The next morning, Irving pulls her away from breakfast early. She's still holding a half-eaten bit of toast in her hand as she follows him to his office. It's one of the more comfortable rooms in the tower for her now, after years of the private lessons the First Enchanter promised her when she was seven. Even though she was just there for a less-than-comfortable reason the day before.

"Sit," Irving orders, nodding toward one of the chairs in front of her desk. Rhyanon does. She finishes her toast as she waits for him to talk.

Irving sits down across from her, behind the desk, and Rhyanon, to her credit, manages not to squirm or reach out for any of the little trinkets that fill the space between them. She just sits still, not quite meeting his eyes. _What do you want?_ her brain screams, but she doesn't ask the question. She just _waits_. "Look at me, Rhyanon," Irving insists. His voice is soft, but forceful.

Fine. She looks up, staring sullenly at her teacher. She'll listen to him, but she doesn't have to _like_ him.

"It's okay to be angry," the elder mage tells her. Rhyanon's heart starts to beat a little faster. She tightens her grip on the chair beneath her, squeezing it until her knuckles almost turn white. And, before she can stop them, tears sting her eyes. They don't fall, thank the Maker, because there's no way she could explain _why_ she's about to cry, just that it's stupid. She bites her lip, and shakes her head.

"No, it isn't," she murmurs.

Irving walks around from behind the desk, and kneels in front of her, so that they are at the same level. His hand rests on hers. "Oh, my dear." With his other hand, he brushes her messy blonde hair behind her ear, so he can see her face. It's gotten long. It's probably never been cut since she got here, he knows. Now that he really looks at her, Irving is forced to remember how young this girl really is. It's easy to forget, sometimes, when she converses with him like a peer, and rarely falters even when confronted with esoteric philosophical texts. She devours every bit of written word he puts in front of her. But she is still just a child. And she's in pain, and it's his fault.

He isn't supposed to have favorites. He _knows_ that. But it's hard not to feel a special bond with this one. "Are you angry at me?" he asks softly.

"No," Rhyanon chokes out.

"It's okay if you are."

"I'm _not_ ," she snaps. "I know I was fighting. I don't care that you whipped me for it."

"Rhyanon -" Irving breathes. When he says her name, he somehow imbues it with infinite patience. But she doesn't have _any_ patience. She doesn't have anything.

"What?!" she yells, pushing him away from her. "I broke the rules! I have to be punished. I'm not special, Irving! You can't pretend you care about me and not do anything to help Anders!"

Irving lets out a long breath, as Rhyanon sits in stunned silence. Her stomach hurts. She can't believe she said that out loud – yelled it, actually. She has no idea how she's supposed to confront it, now that it's out in the open.

Irving stares back at her for a long moment. "Some things we don't get a choice in," he tells her finally. What is it about this girl, that makes him tell the truth?

Rhyanon glares at him. "But you're _in charge_ ," she whines, sounding, for a moment, just like she did when she was seven.

Irving sighs, and shakes his head sadly. "I'm not," he tells her. He has no idea if she'll believe him, if she'll accept it as the apology he won't actually give her, if he even wants her to. He rummages around in his desk, until he finds a pouch of elfroot, and he tosses it to her. She frowns down at it, confused. "Anders is out of the infirmary," Irving says. "Go help him."

She clutches the pouch tightly, then stuffs it into her pocket, to hide it from the templars patrolling the halls. She wants to run, but she doesn't do that either. She does walk quickly, taking advantage of the familiarity you only get in a place after years, when a walk that used to take long minutes now passes by so fast you don't even notice.

The first thing she sees when she gets back to the dorms, which are empty because everybody else is in class, is that the one bed that _has_ been empty isn't anymore. "Anders!" she exclaims. Somehow, just saying his name seems to steal all the air from her lungs. He looks... different. Older. And more scared. He's sitting on his bed, just staring out at nothing. He looks up, when she comes in, but he doesn't acknowledge her.

Rhyanon stops suddenly, a few steps away from his bunk. She swallows hard. She feels stranded in the little bit of space between her bed and his. Even though they could reach out and grab each other's hands in the middle of the night – they _have_ – right now, the space feels like an uncrossable chasm. She stares at him, afraid to move. Somehow, him being here – being _back_ _–_ fills her with even more uncertainty than when he was gone. What if he doesn't want to be her friend anymore? Why would he be? She's just a kid, and he's... what? A criminal? An apostate? She has no idea what she's supposed to say to him.

She decides not to say anything. Instead, she sits down at the foot of his bed, still far enough away from him that they're not touching. But she doesn't want to let him out of her sight. Just in case. There's still a part of her that's afraid this isn't real, that the next time she looks over at this bed, it'll be empty again. She'll be alone. She reaches out, slowly, to grab Anders's hand. To comfort him the way he always used to try to help her.

"Leave me alone," he growls. He twists away from her, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees, disappearing into the shadowed corner where his bunk slams against the wall. He's not wearing a shirt, which isn't unusual for him, but it's different now that she can see the marks cutting across his back. She traces her fingers gently over the violent, eerily precise lines. Anders flinches, but he lets her do it. She holds her breath, and pulls away, and won't quite meet his eye. "It's not that bad," he insists, not at all convincingly.

Rhyanon looks down at the bed instead of looking at him. She skips her fingers over the holes in his blanket, pressing her palm down onto the threadbare sheets until their texture imprints itself into her skin.

"You got away," she whispers.

"No, I didn't!" he cries. The sudden loudness echoes off the stone walls.

Anders's fingers wrap tightly around whatever it is he's holding; Rhyanon looks, and notices the pillow she knows his mother had given him. She doesn't have anything from her parents. She barely _remembers_ them. "Yes, you did," she repeats, stubbornly. "You..." she trails off, not even sure what she's trying to say. She inhales a long, deep breath, then tries again. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Are you _serious_ , Melly? You wanted me to... what? Take you with me?"

"I dunno. Maybe."

"No way."

"I am not a little kid!" she demands.

"You _are,_ " he insists. And somehow, she knows he doesn't mean it in a bad way. "Come here," he begs her, and he sounds so scared and broken that she does it, immediately. He wraps his arms around her. Something wet splashes against her cheek. He's _crying_.

"I'm sorry, Anders," she whispers.

He laughs, then, and it mixes with his tears. "What the hell are you apologizing for?"

"I... don't know. Being mad at you, I guess. And I'm sorry you... got hurt." For some reason, she knows not to acknowledge, out loud, what _actually_ happened. This will be one of their unspoken secrets, something they obviously both know, but won't talk about directly. Ever.

"I'm sorry I didn't help you," Rhyanon adds, very softly.

Anders shakes his head. "Not your fault, Melly." He turns her around so that he can actually look at her. He trails his thumb down the curve of her cheek. "Okay? I don't ever want you to get hurt because of me."

She nods. She still feels bad, for him and about him, and about everything. But he's _here_ , so for the first time in a week, she feels... better. Like she's got some kind of solid ground beneath her. "Okay," she repeats. She unfolds her hand and offers him the crushed-up pouch of elfroot that Irving had given to her. Anders shakes his head. Rhyanon leaves the medicinal herb just sitting there on his bed, knowing he'll either take it or he won't, but either way, he'll probably hide it, just in case. She knows he has a whole bunch of stuff – like that pillow – hidden in a stash under his mattress.

Anders gives her upper arm a gentle squeeze. "Thanks, Melly."

"For what?"

"For... I dunno. Being here? You're the first one who hasn't told me I'm crazy."

"You're not."

"You sound pretty sure about that." He sounds tired. Like _he_ isn't sure.

Rhyanon shrugs. "I get it," she says simply.

Anders lip curls into a frown, and his eyes narrow as he studies her. He shakes his head. "Melly..."

"I get it!" she exclaims. She doesn't need him to tell her that she's too young, that she doesn't understand. She _does_. "I'm not _stupid_ , okay?" she insists. "You don't think I wanna get out of here too?"

Anders has had years to get used to Rhyanon's occasional, explosive bursts of anger. But even still, the force of her fury shocks him. She shouldn't _hurt_ this much. "Was it worth it?" she asks darkly.

Of course it was. But he doesn't think he can tell her that, he can't explain it in a way that would make sense. So he just sighs. "I don't know," he tells the younger girl. It's the most honest answer he can summon.

Rhyanon nods, and retreats to her bed. She watches Anders play with the string tied around the pouch of elfroot, flipping it around between his fingers. "Are you going to class?" he asks softly.

"Are you?"

Anders shrugs. "I think I kind of have to," he admits.

They're both late, but it's not the big deal it would've been a few years ago. These days, "class" more often than not consists of small study groups and demonstrations, scattered throughout the tower's mostly empty rooms, where they can practice and hone their skills. They tread carefully in the halls outside the quarters belonging to Harrowed mages, and Wynne is in the middle of a lecture when Anders hesitantly slips into the room occupied by the few other apprentices that roughly make up their peer group. _While talking,_ she somehow manages to shoot him a look that is simultaneously disapproving and sympathetic.

Rhyanon slips into an unoccupied desk at the back of the room as is grateful for the relative lack of attention on _her_. Wynne is talking about the properties and theories of defensive magic. Rhyanon understands without listening; as the woman talks, she focuses on the tracing careful circles and lines into her notebook, tracing glyphs that mean nothing, until and unless she fuels them with mana. She flicks her pencil quickly against the desk, suddenly uncomfortable with how easily her teacher details the use of wards and shields and mana drains, summarizing them all with a simple word: _counter-offense_. Rhyanon freezes, and pulls herself up out of her slouch. She sits up straight, and still, her entire body charged with the _importance_ of this new information. It's the first time she's ever considered the idea that she might be able to do the same things that the templars do.

The unformed questions weigh heavy on her mind all afternoon. Six or seven times, she starts to ask Irving about the implications of taking away another mage's power, but then stops herself. He notices her distraction and ends their lesson early. He seems distracted too, though. It's just another thing Rhyanon doesn't ask about.

It's a relief to meet up with Anders in the library that evening. The comfortable routine is welcome, after the stomach-churning uncertainty of the past few weeks. Anders seems eager to pretend like nothing has happened that's worth talking about, and Rhyanon still doesn't know what she's supposed to say. Probably nothing. It's easier to stay quiet than to risk him getting mad at her, and she doesn't want to think about getting in trouble anymore, or getting hurt. So, they study.

Well, _she_ studies anyway. As Anders flips through the pages of multiple books on anatomy and medicine, _far_ too quickly to actually be reading any of them, Rhyanon struggles to make sense of the partially translated Orlesian texts Irving had given her. They are important, even interesting, when she can understand them: accounts of the formation of the first Circles, in the aftermath of war. The First Enchanter wants to know what she thinks, what she's learned, what she would have done differently. They are questions she can't answer, but she can't stop thinking about them anyway. She slides her fingernail between her teeth and worries at it as she copies down notes, and tries to figure out what her teacher is really asking her for.

She sighs, and leans over across the table, enough to see what Anders is drawing. It doesn't look like anything, just harsh, angry scratches that carve deep into the parchment. Tally marks, but angry ones, deep cuts that actually do rip up the paper, causing dark pools of ink to bleed around the ragged edges. She frowns. Apparently, pretending to forget is only going to take them so far. Which is fine, because she _wants_ to talk about it. She has to make sure that he's okay. That _they're_ okay.

Anders catches her looking, and slams his book shut. "I'm going to bed," he announces.

He's already halfway to the dorms by the time Rhyanon manages to hurry out of the library to catch up to him, and he doesn't slow down even though he _must_ know she's following him, which means he's deliberately avoiding her.

Fine. She doesn't turn back, but she doesn't talk to him either. Instead, she crawls onto her bunk and pretends she doesn't care what he's doing. She repeatedly rearranges her stack of books, piling it up and unpiling it atop her bed, _playing_ with it, like a small child with a stack of wooden blocks.

She sneaks a glance at Anders out of the corner of her eye. He's rummaging around under his mattress. He pulls out all of his other stuff, spreading it out in a wide arc around him. There are all kinds of useless treasures, smooth stones and dried up plants, and a bunch of other things as well, things that must have come from people: a couple of coins, a marble, a few carved wooden animals. Rhyanon stops bothering to pretend she isn't interested. She leans over, half falling out of her bunk, so that she can get closer. Anders looks up, and smiles at her. But it's a tired smile, and he still feels... off. Dim. She can't _feel_ _him_ like she usually can, and she knows it must be because of the magebane the templars gave him, still there inside him, not all the way gone.

"Where'd you get all that stuff?" she asks, reaching out to pick up the almost perfectly round stone that rests closest to her. It feels warm and smooth in her hand, and it's small enough that when she closes her fingers around it, she can't see it at all.

Anders shrugs. "Around."

"Outside?"

"Some of it, yeah." Not everything. She knows that. There's the stuff that she has too, years-old textbooks and scraps of parchment, pencil stubs. But he _keeps_ it all; he won't get rid of any of it.

Rhyanon chews on her lower lip and holds her breath, and watches him as he takes out some of that old parchment and flattens it against his knee. She exhales, slow and shallow, in time with him.

Anders pulls a bit of old charcoal out from somewhere; Rhyanon doesn't even know how he can _find_ anything, in the jumble of disorganized chaos all around him, but he manages. She settles back on her knees, slowly relaxing as he runs the black residue over the paper, smooth shading that eventually begins to take shape, organic patches of light and dark that form into shadows, and water, and trees. He slips the finished drawing into her hand. Rhyanon folds it up, over and over again, making the square of paper as tiny as she can. She falls asleep with it hidden in her hand.

The next morning, she wakes up even earlier than usual – it's still totally dark, without even a hint of pre-dawn grey creeping in through the faraway windows. She unfolds the drawing Anders had given her and flips it over. Her eye catches Anders' messy handwriting, one word scrawled onto the back of the paper. She hadn't noticed it last night. He'd written it small. _Yes_.

She thinks about the question she'd asked him, when she needed to understand why he'd let himself get hurt, why he'd leave her. She smiles. 'Was it worth it?' 'Yes.' Even though she doesn't know if he has the answer _right_ , it still feels better than not having an answer. It feels better to _know_.


	4. 168 Hours

"You look pretty when you smile."

Rhyanon can feel a sudden flush of heat filling her, from the core of her body. She shakes her head.

"No, I mean it," Anders murmurs. "You do."

He reaches out and trails his thumb down her jawline. Rhyanon swallows hard, and shivers as soon as he pulls away. She feels light-headed, like she can't pull in enough air to breathe. They're still only a handspan apart. She ducks her head so that she doesn't have to look at him – so that he won't see her blushing. She can feel the crackling buzz of his mana, bright and powerful and hot and cold at the same time, with a touch that tastes like pine trees and lemons. She sighs, and giggles as he pushes the not-quite empty bottle of wine into her hand.

Anders leans down and presses a kiss to the top of her head. Rhyanon squirms. She pushes him away. "You're drunk!" she accuses. He doesn't argue.

"So what, Melly?"

She bites her lip and tries to come up with a reason, a good 'so what.' But she can't. She just shakes her head and finishes the wine before he tells her to, and it makes her head swim and she feels like laughing and crying and throwing up, all at once. Anders holds her close, and he's warm and soft and safe and she loves him. "I love you," she murmurs.

Anders runs his fingers through her tangled hair. "You're drunk," he reminds her.

"I know," she replies. It seems obvious.

She wakes up slowly, hours later, and her head is pounding. She doesn't remember going to bed, but she did, obviously. Somehow Anders must have gotten her there, without any of the templar patrols intercepting them. He's good at that kind of thing; she swears he can _invent_ hallways in the tower that don't exist for anybody else.

She moans, and pulls herself up to a sitting position, as she blinks her eyes open and moans some more.

"You're missing Chapel," Jowan points out. He's sitting on the bunk across from hers – Anders's bunk - picking at his fingernails and trying too hard to act like he doesn't care.

"So're you," Rhyanon points out bluntly. _Duh_.

Jowan shrugs, as if it doesn't matter. "He's gone again," he tells her, simply. His voice sounds slightly strained. Rhyanon might be one of the only people who knows him well enough to notice. Panic wraps its icy fingers around her insides, and her headache intensifies for reasons that have nothing to do with last night being the first time she's ever gotten wonderfully, stupidly drunk.

Her heart hurts. She doesn't remember a lot about what happened last night, but what she remembers makes her want to bury herself in her bed and never come out. _He left her_. And he must have done it on purpose. She told him she loved him, and he ran away. It's probably her fault. He's gonna get caught, he's gonna get hurt, and it'll be her fault. Or if he doesn't, then she'll just never see him again, and she knows it's selfish as fuck, but that thought scares her even more.

She remembers the taste of wine on her lips, the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck, the sound of his laughter. Why the hell wasn't she paying attention? Why was she stupid enough to let him get her drunk?!

Tears sting her eyes, but she rolls over onto her back, so that Jowan can talk to her if he feels like it. He watches her, but doesn't say much. He's good at that, he never really talks unless there's something actually helpful to say. He listens though, which is more than she can say for most people.

She stares up at the wooden slats of the bunk above her and wracks her brain, trying to remember every single thing Anders said in the preceding days, in case he'd given her any clues or warnings she'd been too dense to notice. Probably not though. Anders is good at keeping secrets, even from her. Maybe especially from her.

"We have to go to class," Jowan finally says, what feels like an hour later.

Rhyanon nods. Missing Chapel is bad enough, but probably fine because there are so many people there that their absence might not be noticed. But if they don't start acting like good, obedient magelings, then the templars might think they had something to do with Anders running away.

They go to class together – they're still in the same classes, and Rhyanon tries her best to pull Jowan through them when he struggles. The teachers are frustrated by his lack of progress; they are more frustrated by her frequently telling them that they suck at their jobs, and all of this frustration usually cancels itself out and leaves her and Jowan mostly ignored in the back of the classroom. It's impossible to pay attention under normal circumstances, and today is so far away from normal that Rhyanon doesn't even try. She goes to Irving's office early. The door is closed, which is unusual enough in the middle of the day, but she doesn't think too much of it. She stops, halfway in and halfway out of the room, as soon as it becomes apparent that she's walked into an argument between her teacher and the Knight Commander.

Greagoir stalks over to her before she can decide to leave. He grabs her upper arm, not tightly enough to hurt, but enough to keep her from going anywhere. He practically shoves her into the nearest empty chair.

Rhyanon looks to Irving for help, but the First Enchanter _can't_ help her. Greagoir is furious, he will do _anything_ to uphold his duty. And a mage running away from the tower... there's not a lot Rhyanon – or Irving – can say to make that sound less bad then it is. It won't matter to a templar that Anders is a good person, or her friend. She could tell him, over and over again, that Anders won't hurt anybody, but she knows he won't listen.

"Where is he?" the Knight Commander growls. Rhyanon can feel a little bit of pressure at the edges of her skull, a little bit like how it feels when you hold your breath for too long. It's not a Smite, not yet, more like a... warning. A reminder that Greagoir will shut her down if she even _tries_ to reach for her power. She doesn't try.

"I don't _know,_ " she announces, honestly. She stares at the Knight Commander with a look that is _almost_ a hostile glare. Greagoir sighs. "He doesn't talk to me," she insists. Greagoir says nothing. Rhyanon taps her fingers in a quick four-beat pattern on arm of the chair. She caves, a little bit, dropping her gaze. She hates that she's afraid of them. But she is.

"If I knew where he was, I'd tell you," she murmurs.

"Really?" Greagoir sneers. The obvious sarcasm in his tone startles her. Her stomach clenches. She gnaws on her lower lip, still looking down, at the fraying hem of the robes she's starting to outgrow, at the scuffed tip of her boot. She nods, and prays that he'll believe her. He obviously doesn't. And she doesn't know how to prove that she's telling the truth. "Why?" Greagoir demands.

Rhyanon looks up again, tracking the templar's movement as he paces across the room. She tucks her hair behind her ear, and meets his eyes. It's the first time she notices that he seems genuinely worried.

"Because I..." _miss him_ , she wants to say. But she doesn't. "I want him to be safe."

Greagoir nods. He gives her a tired smile. "We will find him, you know," he tells her. His certainty settles like a heavy weight in the pit of her stomach.

"I know," she whispers. Agreeing with the Knight Commander feels like an impossible betrayal. "Can I go now?" she spits. Her voice bleeds with hostility, she almost wants him to call her out on it. But he just nods, and sends her away. And she is all too glad to get away from him. It takes too much effort to walk calmly out of the room, and act like she isn't scared. Part of her wishes that she did know where Anders had gone, so that she can see him again. So that she could protect him.

She has nowhere she's supposed to be – she's _supposed_ to be in Irving's office. And she doesn't want to go to any of her usual places. With Anders gone, she's forced to be aware of how trapped she is here. It's something she tries not to think about most of the time. She doesn't _hate_ the tower, honestly. She doesn't spend all of her time trying to find a way out, the way he does. But she's sick of the dorms and the classrooms and the library and the kitchen and the thought of spending one more minute stuck in any of those rooms makes her feel like punching something, but _there is no place else_.

She ends up retreating to the bathroom. She perches on the sink and plays with magic, tiny streams of ice and fire that are simple to manipulate and control.

She stops when she hears other voices. A few of the other girls – her age, or close to it, all of them – come in tittering and laughing and talking about stupid things. Boys and makeup. One of them, a tall, dark-haired girl with sharp features that make her seem perpetually angry, stares suspiciously at Rhyanon. "What are you doing here?" she spits.

Rhyanon shrugs. "This place isn't _yours_ ," she points out. Obviously.

Another girl, this one quiet and mousy and hiding in the shadows, frowns at her. Her eyes flicker toward the ringleader, and she's so _obviously_ caught between the two of them that Rhyanon almost feels bad. She's seen this kid before, in classes, and in Chapel. She's never talked to her though.

The pack of girls quickly saunters down to another sink – the one all the way across the room, and begins taking out combs and makeup. The quiet one follows in their shadow. They all sit in a circle on the floor, and one of them pulls out a small circle of glass, checking her reflection and that of her friends. The dark-haired one laughs and smacks her lips together, twisting her mouth up like a fish in an attempt to show off her unnaturally, disturbingly bright lip color. Rhyanon wonders where they even get all that stuff; it's not like the Chantry hands out gifts at Wintersend or anything. She watches them while pretending not to.

After a few moments, she slips down from the sink and tries to act like being chased out of her hiding spot isn't at all awkward, like she was done anyway, like she even had a reason to be there in the first place.

She goes to bed early simply because there's nothing else to do, but even after everyone else has fallen asleep she can't get comfortable, no matter how many times she rolls over or shifts position or flips her pillow to the cooler side. She kicks the blankets off, then pulls them back over herself five seconds later. The air is heavy and humid.

Jowan slips in a little while later, but he doesn't say anything to her, and she keeps her eyes closed, even though he can certainly tell she's not actually sleeping. The apprentice dorms are dark, so she guesses the passage of time by listening, though it doesn't really help much. Above her head, she can hear the faraway roar of heavy rain pounding down on the tower roof. She can taste the rain in the air, but she will not be able to feel it, nor likely even see it unless she sneaks away from classes to find a window she can actually look out of. Mostly what she hears is the oppressive almost-silence.

She rolls over again, sprawls out on her stomach, and waits for morning to come. Time creeps slowly.

She goes to the kitchen as soon as she can get away with it, hoping to steal a bit of food for herself so she won't have to talk to anyone else. She crosses through the main hall instead of taking the lesser-known passageways, because she doesn't want anyone to think she's sneaking around. There's no way she could _not_ hear the thunderously loud sound of the gates slamming shut. The Knight Commander hurries to catch up with his patrol of men. The templars are only partially armored and soaked to the skin, but if they look miserable it's nothing compared to Anders, who is limp and shivering. He trips, and barely manages to catch himself – there are shackles around his wrists and ankles, glinting in the early morning light - as one of the few female templars Rhyanon's ever seen pushes him toward Greagoir.

Rhyanon's heart sinks. It's been what? A day? A little over? Last time he'd at least gotten to taste a little bit of freedom. This time... this time everybody loses.

She wants to run out to help him, or ask him what the hell he was thinking, or ask him what went wrong, how they caught up to him so quickly. But something stops her. Fear, or curiosity, or both, a tightness in her stomach. She couldn't move even if she wanted to, it's like someone's drawn an invisible paralysis glyph right at the spot where she's standing.

Irving appears a moment later, and he meets her eyes with a concerned frown. He doesn't send her away – no doubt knowing he'd never win that argument – but he obviously wants her to stay where she is: out of harm's way. Rhyanon tucks herself into the shadows and listens, but she can only hear a few scattered murmurs of the soft but urgent - and very one-sided – argument between the Knight Commander and the First Enchanter.

Greagoir looks up, in her direction, and frowns, but says nothing. And then he grabs Anders's arm and drags him off, without a word. The two of them quickly disappear.

Irving follows soon after, but he turns off in another direction, following the tower's spiraling halls upward. Rhyanon chases him to his office. Irving shuts the door softly, and turns to her.

She stands there with her fists clenched, watching him, not bothering to hide her fear. "Irving, what's gonna happen?" Her voice shakes as she speaks. Her fingers twitch. She can't stay still; it's as though every muscle in her body wants to run after Anders, to protect him somehow.

Irving rests his hand on her shoulder. She can feel the soft touch of the mana he's channeling – without asking her first – a tendril of calming energy. She could block it if she wanted to, but she doesn't. She bites her lip and waits for a response. But the First Enchanter doesn't _say_ anything.

"Irving," she demands. This time, her voice is louder, and steady. "What's gonna happen?"

"The Knight Commander wants Anders isolated for a while. A week or so. Until he's certain the boy won't..." he sighs, and sits down, heavily, in the chair behind his desk. Rhyanon perches on the table's edge.

"Isolated?" she repeats. What does that even _mean_?

"There are cells," Irving says, very softly. "Warded, antimagic. They are... very rarely used."

Rhyanon swallows hard. "You mean like... prison cells?"

Irving nods. When he looks up at her, it's the most vulnerable she's ever seen him. He almost looks scared. But he _can't_ be. Irving has to keep them all safe. It's his job. He _promised_. He told her, a thousand years ago, that he would protect them all, when it really mattered. That's the _point_ of a First Enchanter.

" _Do something_ ," she demands.

Irving sighs, and puts his hand to his forehead as if to ward off a headache. He blows out a heavy sigh. "Rhyanon, I _can't_ ," he tells her, as fear and anger war in her stomach and she tightens her grip on the edge of her desk. They avoid looking at each other.

"He didn't do anything _wrong_."

"He fled from the Circle, in violation of Chantry law. Repeatedly."

"He came back!"

He didn't, really. They tracked him down with a phylactery. But he didn't fight them, and he could've. _Right?_ She doesn't know if that makes her feel better or worse.

"The Knight Commander has not yet declared him apostate," Irving concedes. "But this is not a game!"

" _You_ said this isn't a prison," Rhyanon whispers.

Goosebumps run up her arms, and she doesn't feel any warmer no matter how tightly she wraps her arms around herself.

Irving looks at Rhyanon. He looks her directly in the eye, something too few people do in the tower, this place where no one trusts each other, where everyone's afraid. "The Circle exists to keep people safe," he tells her, gently. "Us and them. I know neither of you believe it, but Anders is in as much danger from the people out there than anyone here. _More_ , probably."

"Liar!" Rhyanon yells. She pushes Irving backwards, away from her.

The First Enchanter sighs. "Have you ever spoken to Jowan about his memories of life before he arrived here?"

"He said he can't remember anything."

"Ask him again."

Rhyanon stares down Irving for a long moment, seeking a flaw in his argument, ready to demand that he can't forfeit responsibility by changing the subject. But yelling at him won't make her feel any better, and will probably make her feel worse, so she just nods.

"I do what I can," Irving tells her, very softly. "You know that, don't you?"

"I guess."

She doesn't believe it though. Or maybe she does, and that's what that hollow feeling inside her is, a hole filled up with the knowledge that 'what he can' won't ever be enough to matter.

She goes looking for Jowan, as much because it's something to do as because Irving told her to. And because she doesn't want to be alone anymore, and she doesn't want to fight with the grown-ups either. It doesn't take her long to find him pretending to read in a secluded corner of the library.

"Irving says I should talk to you," she tells him bluntly. She sits down on the floor beside him and curls her knees up close to her chest. She runs her fingernail along the edge of the design embossed into the leather cover of one of the books he's left on the floor. It's the flaring sun symbol of the Chantry. Rhyanon scowls at it.

Jowan looks neither surprised nor upset to see her there. "'Bout what?" he asks softly.

"Before."

"Melly..."

"Tell me," she demands. "It's important."

Jowan sighs. "I don't feel like talking about it."

"That's different from not remembering."

He holds her gaze for a long moment, then suddenly breaks away. He pushes away the book he'd been reading with his foot, until it slams against the bottom of the nearby shelf. He stares straight ahead, at that bookshelf, as Rhyanon settles in beside him, willing herself not to be anxious, or afraid. She really only talks to Jowan when Anders isn't around. This is the first time she's ever felt bad about it.

They sit in uncomfortable silence for a few long moments, until Rhyanon almost figures he's not going to answer the question. But Jowan starts talking as soon as she starts to get up. "Okay, you know what they say, about this place being here to protect us?" Rhyanon nods slowly. "They're right, I guess."

A flare of anger wells up in the pit of Rhyanon's stomach, a rebuttal already forming in her head. She starts to talk, but Jowan knows her to well. "Just shut up, Rhyanon," he demands. She does, clenching her jaw and grinding her teeth as she listens to him.

"I know I'm the most useless mage here -"

"No, you're not," she interrupts immediately.

"Are you going to listen to me or not?"

"Fine." Rhyanon presses her hand flat against the rug beneath her, and looks at that, while Jowan talks.

"Okay, so even though I can't do anything useful with my magic, I manifested it really early."

Rhyanon nods. "You were five," she remembers.

"Four. And my father... I dunno. My mother'd died bringing me into the world, and he already hated me enough for that. Once it became obvious what I was..." he trails off, for a long moment, and the pain on his face is so obvious that Rhyanon can almost feel it herself. She realizes that she's holding her breath, afraid of what's coming next. "He almost killed me, Rhyanon," Jowan whispers. "The templars saved my life."

She can picture Jowan as a little boy, barely older than a toddler, almost dying at the hands of his own father. She sees it in the way he still cringes _now_ , when people are angry with him. She sees it in the way that he's afraid of himself and his magic. She understands it now, even though she doesn't want to.

"I guess it doesn't matter that they might kill you, then," she spits.

She knows it's not Jowan's fault that she's upset and she shouldn't be mad at him. But he's there. And he doesn't even seem to care when she snaps at him.

His lack of reaction just frustrates her even more. Her head hurts and her stomach hurts and tears sting her eyes and she can't breathe.

He takes her hand, and his fingers feel warm and strong, intertwined with hers. "Rhyanon, what's wrong?"

She wipes her hand across her face and tells him everything. About Anders getting caught. About the dungeon cells she just found out existed. About how Irving all but told her directly that the templars can do whatever they want, that nothing he can do can keep them safe, not really.

"They're not going to kill him," Jowan tells her calmly. Logically.

"They might make him Tranquil," she insists. It scares her more than anything that he doesn't argue that. He's lived here forever. He's probably seen it happen.

'About a week,' Irving had said. Rhyanon counts the days and tries not to let on how much the ever-present templar scrutiny bothers her now. Something important has changed. The tower feels darker. Colder. Isolated.

She struggles in class, trying and failing to figure out how to work a chain lightning spell. She curses as it fizzles out, the moment she attempts to channel the mana required for a secondary surge. She wonders if Greagoir has any idea how much she feels like she's being punished too. Probably. She remembers the way the Knight Commander had looked when he'd grilled her for information. Anders may have been right about her worrying too much, but she wasn't making up the fact that Greagoir thinks she's dangerous; that Irving gives her too much information, that she's too sympathetic to the behaviors that make Anders a borderline apostate. He had _let_ her see what it looked like when his templars found Anders, he'd let her learn about the cells. The fact that it's all meant to be a warning is anything but subtle. But it's effective. It feels like a heavy weight that she can't escape from, ever, as she goes to class and keeps her head down and tries to pretend that everything is absolutely fine and normal.

She keeps looking over her shoulder as she wanders the halls that night, unable to sleep (Night number six since Anders got back. Almost a week).

She jumps when someone puts a hand on her shoulder, and it takes long minutes for her heart rate to slow down, even when she sees it's only Wynne. "It's after curfew," the senior mage points out. Rhyanon shrugs.

Wynne stares down at her, and Rhyanon braces herself for a reprimand, or an order to go to bed, but the woman simply begins walking down the hall toward the classrooms, and her office. "Come with me," she says. It's obviously an invitation, not a command, but Rhyanon follows her anyway.

"What do you want?" she demands.

"Let's say I'd just like to know why you're wandering the tower after curfew."

"Is this the part where you lecture me? Send me to the priests to confess my sins?"

"Would you like me to?" Wynne doesn't bother waiting for a response to the obviously rhetorical question. Instead, she bustles about, brewing a pot of tea.

Rhyanon snorts. "What is it with you people and tea? It's not going to make me feel better."

"It's for me," Wynne replies immediately.

Rhyanon almost laughs at the teacher's unexpectedly witty comeback, but she bites her lip instead, and glares. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest, and leans backward, until her head rests against the bookshelf that's currently serving as a wall. It bothers her, sometimes, how there is so much openness in this place – no personal space, no locks on the doors. No place to hide.

She scowls at Wynne, and resolves not to let herself laugh, or relax. She may have to be here, but she doesn't have to actually talk the woman. They can't make her.

"What do you hope to gain by staying angry for all this time?" Wynne asks gently.

"Nothing," Rhyanon spits, before remembering that she's not speaking to anyone. I'm not angry," she adds, after a heartbeat of uncomfortable silence.

Wynne holds her gaze, neither judging her nor moving away. She simply waits, unfailingly patient, as though she has no qualms whatsoever about allowing an irrationally emotional thirteen-year-old to hide in her office all night. "What do you know?" Rhyanon mutters.

"I know that you need to be very careful with how you go about channeling that anger."

"I'm not going to turn into an abomination!" Rhyanon snaps defensively.

"Maker forbid." Rhyanon stares at her. Her jaw drops open slightly. Wynne only shakes her head. She's actually _smirking_. "If all the demons needed to gain a foothold on this plane was a moody teenager, this world would've long ago been torn asunder," she points out calmly.

Rhyanon sets her jaw, and goes back to glaring.

"You need to do something helpful," Wynne points out. "Something that will -"

"I'm not gonna forget that he's locked up in a dungeon cell!" Rhyanon screams. "Why does this place even _have_ dungeons in the first place?! It's so fucked up!"

There is a long moment of silence, before Wynne gently sets down her mug and hugs the girl close. Rhyanon doesn't have any energy left to fight her. She lets the senior mage hold her. It's the first time anyone has since she was a little kid. It should be embarrasing, but it isn't. It feels safe. Rhyanon shivers and struggles to get control of her breathing. She doesn't even care that she's crying anymore. Wynne starts combing through Rhyanon's long hair with her fingers, gently untangling the knotted mess. Rhyanon relaxes slowly, though her breathing is still interspersed with sporadic, hiccuping sobs. "He wouldn't hurt anybody," Rhyanon demands.

"I know," Wynne agrees. Her voice is steady, and comforting.

"He's not _dangerous_."

"What would you like me to say to you? That you're right, that this place is not solely about protecting us? Would that make you feel better?"

"Yes!" Rhyanon yells, stupidly. She's just so completely, utterly sick of everyone lying to her.

Wynne sighs. She gets up and places a cup of tea next to Rhyanon, though neither of them actually expects the girl to drink it. Rhyanon rests her hand against the smooth ceramic mug, feeling its residual warmth pass through her skin. "You can't leave either, can you?" she asks softly.

She's never considered what would happen once she became an adult. For so long, that has seemed so far away, too far away to matter. Maybe that's why Anders runs away. He probably thought about that a long time ago.

"Harrowed mages are often assigned to cities across Ferelden," Wynne replies. "There is much work that our... talents can make considerably easier. And some of us are sent to other Circles, to share information, or assist with specific research."

"But you come back."

Wynne nods. Obviously. "Sometimes, not for several years, though."

"Do you get to decide where to go?"

"Sometimes," Wynne answers carefully, and Rhyanon can read through the lines enough to hear 'not a lot.' The older woman sighs. "There's a long time before you'll have to worry about any of this," she points out.

"Maybe not as long as you think," Rhyanon mutters darkly.

"The Knight Commander is not an evil man," Wynne says, very slowly. She lays it out in the same way that she offers step-by-step instructions in practical demonstrations in the classroom. "He is simply trying to impress upon your friend the incredible seriousness of his actions."

"Yeah, but -"

" _Amell_." Rhyanon bites her lips as soon as the woman says her name. "The both of you are far beyond childish pranks. Anders is an adult now, a Harrowed mage."

"No, he isn't."

Wynne looks down. "He passed the test a few days ago."

"You mean right after he... got back." Was dragged back. In shackles, and beaten so badly he could barely walk. And then they made him go through the Harrowing? A test that sometimes – more than anyone ever wants to talk about – kills people, even people who _aren't_ already weak.

"Is he okay?" Rhyanon whispers.

"Anders is surprisingly resilient. You know that."

"But -"

"No buts, Amell. He's okay."

Rhyanon studies the older mage's face, trying to figure out it she's lying, or hiding anything. But Wynne is good at not giving anything away. She'll have to trust the woman. She doesn't have any other choice.

"I am not telling you to forget about your friend," Wynne says gently. "But it will help you to have something else to occupy your time, and your mind."

Rhyanon nods. The senior mage smiles and clears away their teacups, then sets to work showing Rhyanon the fundamentals of healing. Showing her how to help.

Rhyanon really does end up spending nearly the whole night with Wynne. She's falling asleep on her feet when the teacher escorts her back through the halls to the apprentice dorms only a couple of hours before dawn, to protect her from the scrutiny of the templars stationed along the way. Rhyanon murmurs her thanks. When she curls up to sleep, she does it in Anders's bed.

She blinks her eyes slowly, then immediately panics when she realizes that someone else has woken her up. She can still feel the hand on her shoulder. She scrambles backward, raising her arm to protect herself.

The emotional overcharge snaps her immediately into full alertness. But the confusion doesn't go away. It just changes flavor. "Anders," she whispers, as she slowly regains control of her breathing.

He sits down on the bed next to her. "Hey," he says. His voice sounds rough, and he looks tired. Rhyanon tries not to notice. "Bad dream?"

She nods. "Yeah," she murmurs. It seems the easiest way to sum it up. She studies him carefully, trying to read him, trying to figure out how worried she should be.

"I didn't expect a welcoming committee," he teases gently. Rhyanon blushes. And then she hugs him. She wraps her arms around him and holds him tight, trying not to notice when he shies away.

"I guess that means you missed me," he says slowly, and his voice fills her stomach with flapping wings.

She nods.

He's too tense. She lets go of him. She carefully _doesn't_ touch him.

"Of course I did!" It sounds much more like crying than she wanted.

"Aw, come on, Melly. I've been gone for what? A few days? Nothing to get worked up about. Really."

A few days? No. That's not good enough. One week exactly. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. He knows. He's been counting. So has she.

"No one would tell me anything," she whispers.

He sits down next to her, and forces out a broken laugh. "Of course not," he whispers. "There's nothing to tell. They locked me in a room, ignored me for a couple of days, and let me out again. Piece of cake, really. Nice break. No homework."

He's trying too hard. It _hurts_. Rhyanon shakes her head. "Please don't lie," she begs him. "Everybody else in this place lies. Not you, too."

"When did I ever lie to you, Melly?" His voice is still light, but his eyes are haunted. His words are too measured, too careful. He's _still_ lying. Rhyanon stares him down. "Okay, so it was a little cold down there. And it smelled like wet rat most of the time. But I promise, that's all it was. They were trying to scare me, that's all."

She snorts, and it's halfway between laugh and cry. "Since when has that ever worked with you?"

He smiles. It seems more real now. She relaxes, just a bit. "See? Walk in the park, told you so."

She shakes her head, and struggles to breathe. "Did you know you were going to leave, that night?"

"Melly -"

"Did you?!"

He nods, slowly. And Rhyanon's heart sinks. She'd known it, but somehow having the confirmation just makes her feel even worse. "And you didn't tell me."

"Of _course_ I didn't!" Anders yells.

Rhyanon flinches, but it feels good. It makes him seem more alive. More solidly real. "I thought they were gonna make you Tranquil," she gasps. "I thought... I thought I was gonna lose you."

"Melly, I don't wanna talk about it. Okay? Please?"

Rhyanon kicks at the floor with the toe of her boot. "I wanna help you," she murmurs. "I can, you know. Please let me help you. I..." she takes a shuddering breath. When did she start actually crying? How did that happen?

She won't finish the sentence. There are too many ways it could go wrong.

"I'm okay, Melly," Anders insists. His voice is _almost_ calm. "There's nothing you could do anyway."

"I'm not okay," she admits.

"Don't say that," Anders begs. "Don't... don't get hurt because of me. I never wanted you to. I never wanted this."

"It's kinda too late for that," Rhyanon admits.

Anders sighs. "I know," he murmurs. And he is _so_ resigned. She's never heard him sound like that. Like someone who's given up.


	5. Signs of Impact

"Rhyanon, you are incredibly talented."

She crosses her arms over her chest and stares at Irving. She can't remember when she stopped feeling like she had to look _up_ to meet his eyes; it seems like that happened a long time ago. He's still taller than she is, he's still old, but now it takes something out of the ordinary to remember that they're not on the same level. Something like the incredibly complex spell he's demonstrating for her now.

She feels the static pressure of his mana collecting around her and brushing up against that source of similar power that's flowing through her. She lets her eyes drift closed as she instinctively reaches with outstretched fingers in an attempt to follow her teacher's movements, to grasp the gestures that help him infuse his will onto the target. She bites her lip and _pushes_ against the barrier that blocks the Fade – the genesis of their shared power - from the tangible world. She has to see past what's solid, she knows that. She has to focus on what he's _doing_ , not what she sees. It takes an intense amount of concentration – she can feel the coils of pressure, like fingers locked tight around her wrist. Her forehead beads with sweat, and she shakes her head.

"I can't do it," she whines.

Irving sighs. He lets his mana slowly fade away, and then he looks her in the eye. "Rhyanon, you're not _supposed_ to," he insists. "Not right away."

"Then what's the point of even showing me?" she snaps.

A smile quirks at the edges of the First Enchanter's lip, and he shakes his head. "The point is to show you what's _possible_. You must be _patient_. Power like this cannot come to you all at once."

His fingers trace lightly across her shoulderblade, kneading away the tension there, until she shrugs him off. She pulls away from him, and backs up into the wall, which _hurts_ , when she crashes into it. It irritates her, enough to make her scowl and glare at Irving. Not like it's _his_ fault.

He sighs, and sits down atop his desk. As always most days – since the start – he waits for her to speak.

She kicks the wall behind her and doesn't look at him.

"I know you're angry -"

" _Duh_."

Irving sighs again, a familiar sound: exasperated, worried, afraid. He holds her gaze – and she can _feel_ it – until she _has_ to look up just so that it doesn't feel like he's _staring_ at her. "Rhyanon," he says softly. "You have to start thinking about yourself."

She shakes her head, not wanting to hear this argument.

"You have so much potential," he whispers, almost like a prayer. "Don't waste it."

 _It's not a waste to help my friend_ , Rhyanon thinks, although immediately she wonders if that's true. It's been a long time – too long, since she's even _seen_ Anders. He doesn't hang around with her anymore, why would he? He's been Harrowed for nearly three years now.

"Can I be excused?" she mutters.

Irving sighs, but concedes, the way she'd known he would.

She retreats to the library, burrowing into one of the many shadowy corners. She tucks her hair behind her ear and stares up at the shelves that stretch up to the ceiling, twice her height. It's warm in here, and comfortable, and she likes being able to hide.

She huddles over a heavy tome that she isn't _exactly_ reading, losing herself in the rhythm of the words. She likes the feel of the thick parchment between her fingers, the pages soft at the edges from years and years of being handled and read by who knows how many mages.

She nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears the footsteps approaching. She swallows hard and schools her features. And she reminds herself that she's not doing anything _wrong_.

Her stomach constricts a little when she recognizes Anders. He gives her a smirk, then scratches the back of his head and crouches down next to her. He reaches over to the book she's reading, flipping through the pages. He then flips it over so he can read the title etched into the spine.

"A History of Diplomacy and Politics and Boring People Who Died A Thousand Years Ago," he announces, voice dripping with sarcasm. " _Interesting_."

"You _like_ reading," Rhyanon accuses.

Anders just shrugs. "Sometimes. Maybe."

Rhyanon crosses her arms over her chest and stares him down. "What do you _want_?"

"For you to not bite my head off?" he replies, immediately. "For a start." He sits down next to her without bothering to wait for a response. Rhyanon pulls away and raises an eyebrow. He's never been able to joke his way out of trouble with her. She has a way of cutting straight to the core of things, demanding the truth.

"You can't just come over here and pretend like nothing's changed," she insists. "Like we're still friends."

"I thought we were," Anders whispers. He sounds tired, wounded. Afraid. Rhyanon can hear it in his voice, but she can't acknowledge it. She curls up tighter, protecting herself.

"That isn't what I meant."

"I know."

 _You have to start thinking about yourself_ , Irving had told her. Maker, she is so damned selfish already. She doesn't know how to help anybody even if they _ask_ , and nobody does.

She cautiously glances up at Anders, but she keeps herself removed from him. He has a way of making her feel like she's losing herself, getting too caught up in him. And she can't let that happen. She can't afford to lose anything more than what she's already lost.

She breathes: slowly, carefully. And she tries to figure out how to ask the question she already knows he won't answer.

He only gets serious like this when he's about to run.

He's been doing so well: fitting in, following the rules. Teaching. She sees him working with Wynne sometimes - the two of them speaking softly, sometimes even laughing, as they delve into complex healing that Rhyanon knows she'd never be able to figure out. She doesn't want to. She's just glad Anders has found something he's good at. Something that might keep him here.

"I want you to be happy," she says carefully.

He shifts a little, next to her, and nods. "Yeah. I know."

"But?"

"Who says there's a 'but'?"

Rhyanon glares at him, but he doesn't flinch. He never does.

"I don't want you to go away again!" she demands. She throws her fears out into the air, she forces herself to say them out loud, where she can't take them back. She has to trust that he'll hear her, that he'll listen, that he'll care.

Anders holds her gaze for half a heartbeat, and then he drops his gaze. He buries his face in his hands. "Melly..."

"You _are_ gonna run. Aren't you? You're gonna try to escape again."

She lashes out and hits him, raining her fists against his arms, his chest. She flails helplessly until he grabs her wrist. He pushes her away from him, pressing her against the wall at her back because there is no other space. She had been _hiding_ back here, after all.

"Would you shut up?" he hisses.

"What are you _thinking_? What's wrong with you?!"

"Rhyanon! Shut. Up."

She does, finally. She slams her jaw shut so loudly that she can hear it clicking. It hurts, a little bit. The impact vibrates through her skull. She glares at Anders, and waits, as long seconds tick by, for him to get up and walk away, for him to leave her.

But he doesn't.

"I'm not gonna tell on you," she mutters.

"You think that's what I'm worried about?"

"Isn't it?"

He shakes his head. "No. Never. I'm never gonna tell you what to do."

"You _want_ me to get you in trouble?"

"I get myself in trouble, kid."

"I'm not a kid!" she snaps.

It never used to bother her, _much_ , when Anders treated her like a younger sister. She basically is. But she needs him to listen to her.

"You don't have to do this, you know," she adds, more quietly. "You could... stay."

He shakes his head, and kisses the top of her head. The same way he'd done before his last attempt, three years ago. At least he's not hiding it from her this time. "No," he tells her. "No, I can't."

Rhyanon nods. "I know," she mutters. She tries to be angry at him, but she can't. She understands the crushing pressure of this place, all too well.

She obviously isn't at all surprised the next day, when she hears the whispered rumors about Anders's absence. Jowan catches her eye in Chapel. Their conversation, such as it is, is short and whispered, a few words mumbled as they kneel next to one another and pretend to pray. It's enough for Rhyanon to gather that Jowan isn't surprised about Anders's disappearance either, and she wonders if he'd gotten a goodbye too, or if he'd read the signs the same way she had. Or maybe he's just used to it by now, and he doesn't let himself get disappointed by being left. She doesn't have time to ask him. The Grand Cleric is making her annual visit to the tower, and that means silence and dire threat even in the best of circumstances. Now, with an escaped mage to answer for, punishment is almost certain. Even the templars seems subdued, for now, though Rhyanon knows damned well that they'll take out their anger on anyone stupid enough to cross their path later.

The Grand Cleric preaches on Threnodies, one of her particuar favorites: "You have brought Sin to Heaven and Doom upon all the world." She spits and snaps, the anger in her tone forcing their attention. Rhyanon swears, when the woman's eyes land on her, that the priest can see something rotten and corrupted inside of her. She bites her lip, but doesn't look down; she won't admit guilt.

The Grand Cleric eventually moves on, letting her searing gaze fall on someone else, letting her sermon drift to other topics. Yet her words still drill the point home: she speaks of lies, and betrayal. It's not _all_ bad, of course. She makes sure to remind them all that they may be cursed, but they aren't _doomed_ : light and glory will shine upon them all if they confess their sins and submit to the will of the Maker.

Rhyanon doesn't care much about her soul. The price they're asking for her salvation is more than she can afford to pay.

She stays alone in the chapel afterward, though, kneeling on the hard floor until it starts to hurt. She stares at the colorful shards of glass set into the walls all around her. It's easy to make sense of the pictures – she could recite the story they're telling almost from the start. But that's not why she likes them: it's always been the color, and the light. She squints so that the edges blur and all that's left are those soft motes, dancing in the air. And she whispers a worldless prayer to a Maker she doesn't actually believe in. Even here, she can't verbalize what she wants. It's contradictory, and impossible even if it weren't. But she wants it anyway, and maybe, for a few flickering seconds, she can sit here and feel like she's allowed to believe in things.

Time slides by: days turn into weeks, then months. Rhyanon isn't sure if that means her prayer were answered, or that they weren't. She does know that it feels like her stomach constantly hurts. He's never been gone this long. Maybe, _maybe,_ he's gotten away forever this time. She wants that to be true. Doesn't she?

It bothers her, how much she's starting to forget him. She closes her eyes, and she remembers when they used to be best friends, when he'd climb up on her bunk and play with wisps of light, making them change color and dance around her head. But all of those pictures come from when they were young. When she tries to remember Anders _now_ , all she can picture is silent anger. And fear.

She rolls over, and looks at Jowan. He's sitting on his top bunk, studying. "I miss him," she whispers. She speaks too quietly to be heard, but Jowan nods anyway. He doesn't talk to her. What is he supposed to say?

"Rhyanon, are you listening to me?" Irving asks, the next morning. His voice is full of quiet, insistent force. She nods. She's always been capable of looking like she's paying attention, even as distracted and tired as she is. Irving doesn't buy it though. He leans in close to her, and forces her to look at him. "Are you ready for a Harrowing?" he asks her, when her attention fails, _again._ It's probably the tenth time in the half an hour since their lesson began. " _Be ready_. Focus!"

"I'm only sixteen," she tells him. She's getting defensive, almost hostile, but she's tired of having to act like she cares about studying. Even spellwork, the stuff that used to make her feel energized and awake, the kinds of games that came easily to her, the things they can do that make them _special_... there's nothing in them that makes her feel good anymore. Her power, when it comes at all, seems only to trickle: a tiny flow of water dripping through a crack in a dike. And even that trickle gets her punished: for being dangerous, watched constantly in case she loses control.

Anders was seventeen when he was Harrowed, and really close enough to eighteen to make no real difference, and he was probably too young. She knows they only forced the test on him because they wanted him to fail. So _no_ , she's not ready. But it isn't fair to ask her to be.

But even when she's frustrated by his incredible seriousness and cryptic warnings, Rhyanon still clings close to Irving because it's better than trying to fit in with the other apprentices. She doesn't know how to talk to them. It didn't seem to matter when they were younger, and she was just... different, not interested in the same shallow entertainments, uncertain how to jump into a conversation or put other people at ease when it seemed like all anybody wanted to do was ignore what was really happening around them. She'd gone spying around the tower, running after Anders and Jowan, and she'd fit in with them alright. That uncertain belonging was enough to carry her this far.

Now though, when the only shared memories any of these Tower children have are of enforced silence and unspoken fears, it seems like there are matters of life and death that they are all purposely avoiding the only way they can: by refusing to admit to them out loud. No wonder they don't talk to each other, and Rhyanon feels more and more alone. The few connections she'd managed to craft in the years when they were still allowed to build them are fragile now, fraying and stretched to the breaking point.

She hears the other girls whispering about her, and she pretends she doesn't. They whisper about Jowan too, and Anders. Jowan because he's weird just like Rhyanon is. And Anders because... well, because apparently he's been fucking more than one of them, whenever they could get away with it when the templars weren't watching.

Rhyanon doesn't care about that, she's not _jealous_. Anders is a grown man and he can fuck whoever he wants to fuck. She just thinks it's totally messed up that those girls don't even seem to care about what happens to him. They just don't want to get themselves in trouble.

Anders is captured again, nearly four full months after the night that Rhyanon had known he was planning to run, when she promised not to tell. The templars found him just like she'd feared – and _known –_ they would. The longer he manages to evade their grasp, the angrier it makes them when they finally do catch up. He has to know that. Rhyanon does, and she's never even tried to run.

She keeps waiting to run into him in the hall, or find him in the tiny bedroom he's got in the grown-up mage quarters now. But of course she won't because they're not gonna let him wander. They'll leave him down in the dark, until he forgets why he ever thought he could get away from them.

Rhyanon remembers when she'd first been surprised by the existence of dungeon cells in this place that's supposed to be their home. Now, their existence – and _use –_ seems inevitable.

It takes her a while to summon up the drive to get up and fake her way through the day, but she does it, because she has to. She stops in the apprentice dorms first to wash her face and make sure she looks presentable enough to blend in. She keeps her head down on the walk to the library, and slips into an empty chair with smooth 'don't-look-at-me' silence.

Jowan looks up from the book he's flipping through, and meets her eyes. He slides his fingernail between his teeth. "He'll be okay, the stubborn bastard.”

Rhyanon looks up, startled. But of course he knows what she's thinking about. And if she could find out about Anders's punishment, then obviously he could too. Nothing stays secret in the tower for long. She nods, knowing that he's right. It doesn't make it any easier.

The mood in the tower is sullen, there is a restless anger brewing behind the quiet monotony of the daily routine. This is _why_ the templars try to keep things quiet. But the apprentices aren't stupid. They know Anders was hauled back last night.

Rhyanon shivers, even in front of the library's large fire. She rips up scraps of paper and throws them into the flames. It's been a long time since she's actually done any of the assignments Irving sets for her: what the hell is the point?

He's not pleased about it, of course, when she turns up at his office empty-handed. But he understands. She can read it in his eyes, which are dark and heavy.

"You didn't sleep either, huh?" she asks him.

Irving sighs. "There are days, when I _really_ wish things could be different."

"Why can't they?"

Irving just smiles sadly, and shakes his head. She knows it's her cue to leave. Their lessons don't follow any kind of set schedule. Being let go early means she's got an hour before lunch will be served. She heads down to the kitchens anyway, to help peel and cut up the vegetables that will be dumped into the huge soup pots.

"You're lookin' like you might cut me with that knife," Ada points out.

"I won't."

Rhyanon ties her hair back and keeps peeling. The curls of green and brown coil into growing piles on the table in front of her. When the other apprentices begin to arrive, with dragging steps and whispered words, Rhyanon eats her own watery bowl of soup in the kitchen, and stuffs her bit of hard bread into her pocket for later. She knows she's going to need it after her afternoon classes. It's been a long time since she's been able to sit safely out of harm's way, watching as others cast spells. Now, they've noticed her skill, and they hone it, with brutal efficiency.

"Try again," someone barks. Rhyanon isn't sure if they're talking to her or one of her classmates, but it doesn't much matter. She blocks out the voices of the senior enchanters. _None_ of them matter. All that matters is her need to hurt something, to fight. They tell her that magic is about willing things into being, and right now, she just wants to burn the tower down. It's easy to hit the targets they put up – almost too easy. She hits them with fire and rage, ice and destruction. She's left sweating and breathing hard, and her eyes are stinging with smoke.

"Do it again," one of the templars orders.

She shakes her head. "I can't."

"You _have to_."

She curls her fingers into tight fists and pulls for mana she doesn't have until she can feel the pain of it firing through her nerves. When the incoming attack comes, she has to block it physically, and the shock of impact rings up her arm. She swears she hears a cracking sound, and her wrist explodes with pain. She cradles it close to her body, and glares at the older mage who stares her down, fingers wrapped loosely around his staff. "You'll need to defend yourself, Amell. _Always_."

She nods, but the truth is, she's so exhausted that it takes everything she has even to stumble into bed and collapse. They tell her to keep something in reserve, but they don't _let_ her. But that's another lesson she'll have to learn: how to do it anyway. They'll keep beating her down until she gets it right.

She wraps herself tightly around her pillow and lets sleep claim her.

She wakes up a few hours later, in the dark middle of the night. One of the little kids is crying. Rhyanon can't find it in herself to care. She just pulls her pillow over her head and goes back to sleep.

She skips breakfast the next morning. Everything hurts. Her entire body is aching, even the parts that aren't covered with bruises and cuts from training weapons and the punishing blows of the templars.

She curls up in the chair across from Irving's desk and only half-listens as he praises her for her skill with primal magic. She calls up a simple flame when he asks her to, and lets it dance in her hand, but it snaps out the minute he tries to distract her, and she throws up her arm in an attempt to protect herself before she realizes that it's _Irving_. He's not gonna hit her. He's not even mad at her.

He sits close to her, acting more like a friend than a teacher. "You're doing very well, Rhyanon," he tells her softly. "I need you to know that."

She nods. She _does_ know it, even if it doesn't feel like she's ever good enough to please anybody than Irving. Not doing well enough isn't her problem.

She can feel the eyes on her constantly. Even in here, she knows there's a templar standing just outside the door, with a sword and armor. Ready to kill her if he has to. Or even just if he felt like it. They tell her to defend herself, but she _can't_. None of them can.

She looks up at Irving, with tears in her eyes, and she traces the pattern of that sylized templar flame with her finger. The smooth wood of the desk feels cool beneath her touch. "I don't want to be good at it," she mutters.

Irving holds her gaze. "You have a gift," he murmurs. "Rhyanon, you are among the most gifted students I've ever taught."

"So what?"

"So. I want to see you succeed. There is so much opportunity waiting for you. You can go so far."

"Don't tell me that!" she screams. "You think I don't know what they're training me for?! What I'm so good at?!" Fire and pain, blood and destruction. It scares her how easy it comes to her, _how good it feels_. "I don't want to hurt people, Irving! I don't want to be good at it!"

"So what's your solution then? To stop trying."

"Maybe."

Irving sighs, and when he speaks again, his voice his deadly serious. "I cannot watch you throw your life away."

"What are you gonna do about it? Lock me up in a cell to _protect_ me?"

He shakes his head, and tells her to go for a walk, clear her head.

She stalks through the hallways, making too much noise, drawing too much attention herself. She radiates hostility, the kind of defiant posturing that leads the worst of the templars to take it upon themselves to put the mages in their place. And this time is no different.

One of the men she'd watched antagonizing Anders all through the last ten years is all too happy to turn his attention toward her instead. It's too late now to avoid him. Rhyanon stands there, cycling through options in her head. If she were like Anders, she'd give him exactly what he's looking for: some kind of sarcastic taunt, daring him to do exactly what he's planning to do anyway.

The templar smiles, a cruel smirk. His dark eyes flash as he narrows them, watching her every movement exactly like a predator. "I know all about you," he hisses in her ear. "I'm _watching_ you, girl. And there's no one here to shield you now."

He slams her against the wall, hard enough to bruise. She can't slip away. Fear batters at the inside of her body, like butterfly wings, churning up a storm of panic. She licks her lips, and lowers her eyes. She wills the man to go away, to leave her alone. Tears sting her eyes and slide down her throat. They taste like acid. She's too aware of all of the things she'd tried not to notice: templar eyes on her, whispers in the night, the leering stares that started to follow her as soon as she began to develop a woman's body. The man's fingers fondle her breast, and she holds her breath and squeezes her eyes shut and tells herself she doesn't care. It's just a touch. It doesn't matter.

She can feel his hot breath on her neck. It smells of alcohol. His eyes are wild and frenzied.

Her heartbeat races in her chest and she fights without thinking. Panic overwhelms her paralysis, and she lashes out, pushing the templar away from her, augmenting her lack of physical strength with magical force, pulled from the elements she's not allowed to touch, locked away in here. All of the combat training they've been forcing her through comes back with a vengeance.

At least until her attacker hits her with a Smite, leaving her breathless and shaking, too weak to pick herself up from the cold stone floor.

"What is going on here?"

Wynne's voice echoes off of the close walls, startling both Rhyanon and the templar into frozen shock. Rhyanon picks herself up. She doesn't answer the Senior Enchanter though. She doesn't even look at her.

The templar sneers at the old woman. "This bitch -"

"I'll thank you not to use that language in my presence, Ser."

To Rhyanon's astonishment, the templar snaps his mouth shut. But he won't let the matter drop. Wynne insists on walking with them to the Knight Commander's office, and Rhyanon clings to her, hovering in her shadow the way she had when she first got to the tower. That seems like forever ago now. But she needs the older woman's protection more than ever.

Greagoir pulls his templar aside, out into the hall, and Rhyanon is left alone and squirming in the man's office as Wynne goes to fetch the First Enchanter. She looks around, taking it all in, trying – _failing_ – not to be intimidated by the sheer number of things that could hurt her in here: weapons, magebane, lyrium... it's all locked away, but that doesn't change the fact that Greagoir holds the life and death of every person in this place in his hands. She closes her eyes and clenches her fists and says a silent prayer.

The words have barely escaped her lips, in murmurs and exhaled breaths, when she hears footsteps behind her. She whirls around, her heart beating too fast, out of control. She swallows deep gulps of air as the First Enchanter wraps his arms around her and hugs her close. She doesn't bother trying to hide the obvious evidence of her scuffle with the templar. "What happened?" Irving asks urgently.

There is too much fear in his voice. Rhyanon's heard it before, when he's trying to fight the Knight Commander on a punishment, when he knows he won't win. Fear curdles in the pit of her stomach. Irving soaks a bit of cloth in water and hands it to her, beneath Greagoir's disapproving glare. The Knight Commander has returned to the room. Alone. Rhyanon's not sure if that should make her feel safer or not. She holds the cool rag to her cheek and glares at two men who hold her caught between them. They argue about her as though she's not even there.

"She's just a child, Greagoir. Surely you -"

"She attacked one of my men."

"I did not!" Now, they do pause. Greagoir blinks. Irving sighs. "I didn't," she repeats, more softly. She forces herself to steady her voice and her breathing. It takes effort not to whine, or plead. Or scream. Instead, she ducks her head and waits for them to figure out what to do with her.

"You take care of her, Irving," the Knight Commander sighs. He stalks out of the room without another word.

Rhyanon holds her breath. Was she imagining it, or did she actually hear the smallest bit of sympathy in the templar's voice?

Her head is still ringing in the aftermath of the Smite the templar had cast on her. She suddenly feels weak, almost too tired to stand. Her thoughts are muddled.

"Rhyanon," Irving says gravely. She stares at him, barely processing his words. "You need to be careful."

What does that even _mean_? She lifts her hand to her head, fighting off the pressure of trying to figure out right and wrong. How it it be wrong to fight to protect herself? How can it be _wrong_ to be angry when everyone else stands by while people are getting hurt?! The looming threats and consequences, the closing walls of this place... she can't do this anymore.

"I can't!" she screams, out loud. "What's the point?"

Her teacher tries to comfort her. Irving rests a gentle hand on her shoulder, but she just shrugs him off, pushing him away with surprising force.

"He wouldn't want you -"

"Don't you dare try to tell me what he'd want! He wouldn't _want_ me to be stuck in here with _you_. He wouldn't want to be in cell!"

"You're lucky you're not!"

Irving, who has never been unruffled or loud in all the years she's known him, _yelling_ at her, breaks through Rhyanon's selfish anger. She forces herself to look up, into his dark eyes and his troubled, frowning face. He looks about a thousand years old.

But she can't stop being mad.

"Isn't it your job to protect us?" she spits, before stalking out of the room.

She throws herself onto her bed in the dorms, not caring what anybody else thinks about her, not caring about the rumors that are already beginning to circulate.

"Did you get in trouble?" Jowan asks. She doesn't ask him how he knows she might have. He always knows these things.

She shakes her head. "Not really. They just yelled for a while."

Jowan nods. He reaches for the bruise rapidly darkening under her eye until she flinches away and he pulls back. "Looks nasty," he whispers.

Rhyanon shrugs. "It doesn't really hurt," she lies. She could fix it herself, if she wanted to. She isn't sure she wants to, though. It feels kind of good, to have some obvious sign of impact.


	6. Light Up The Sky

"Rhyanon, it's not uncommon for apprentices to grow apart, as they grow older."

"Not me and him," Rhyanon demands. As though she could make it true just by saying it.

"I know you're scared -"

"Of course I'm scared!" She swallows hard, shutting down her outburst almost immediately. "I don't know what to do," she whispers. She doesn't look at Irving. She can't trust her ability to keep her emotions contained if she does. "He used to talk to me about everything and now he doesn't and he only stopped because..."

"Because we took him away from you," Irving fills in. Rhyanon has to strain to hear him. She closes her eyes, and nods.

She trusts Irving, she _has_ to believe in him. But it still feels like there's this wedge between them. There are things that she can't say to him, because he's the _First Enchanter_. But there's nobody else she can talk to either.

She hovers uncertainly at the threshold of Irving's office door, but the First Enchanter doesn't look up. She knows he's aware of her watching him, but he just clears his throat and pretends he doesn't see her. So Rhyanon keeps walking.

She moves, whisper-quiet, through the halls, skipping her fingers along the stone walls as she follows the gently spiraling curve upward toward the mage quarters on the upper floors. Her footsteps echo through the stairwell. She hurries between the patches of light that the torches on the wall throw onto the floor, looking over her shoulder the whole while.

She finds Anders "room" - really just a mattress supported by a rope bed, wedged into a corner against the unused bookshelf serving as a divider to separate him from the other mages nearby. Rhyanon pushes her way into the space. Anders lifts his head, but doesn't move aside from that. He sits on the edge of his bunk, and from what Rhyanon can tell, she hasn't interupted anything. She sees no books, no clothing or scattered personal possessions, or any sign at all that there's someone living here. But why would there be? He hasn't lived here in months. Her stomach constricts when she realizes that when Anders thinks of the tower, he must be as likely to think of the locked and warded basement cells as the apprentice dorms or classrooms. This place isn't home, not for any of them. But she can't remember anything else.

Without a word, she slips into place beside him, just like she'd done when they were kids. He shifts position to accommodate her. He wraps his arm around her, tucking her close to his body. She curls up, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat, even through all the layers of clothing they're both wearing.

"What if they kill you next time?" she whispers. She doesn't bother pretending there won't be a next time.

"They won't," he replies, immediately. He sounds so damn _certain_ that Rhyanon knows there's no arguing with him. She tries anyway.

"You can't know that," she mutters.

"They won't kill me. They'll lose the best healer they've ever had."

Rhyanon frowns. She studies Anders, forcing herself to really _look_. He looks exhausted, as tired as she feels. His muscles are tense. His eyes are sunken and shadowed. "Anders..." she murmurs.

He holds her gaze for a long moment, then lets his eyes slip closed. He bites his lip. Rhyanon can feel the humming tension inside of him. "Never mind, Rhyanon, it doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does," she whines.

Anders sighs. He traces his thumb gently over her skin, stilling the motion as she winces and bites her lip. He lets his mana flow into her, working to close the broken rip in her skin. Rhyanon looks into his eyes as he does it, she doesn't try to stop him. They still look the same, those pools of liquid amber. They flicker with guilt and shame and Maker knows what else, and she doesn't know what she's supposed to say to him, how to fix this space between them.

She closes her eyes as he fixes up the lingering aftermath of brutal war training, pain she's stopped trying to catalogue, figuring it's all just a constant part of her life now. She understands the bitterness in Anders's tone. They won't kill him. They can't afford to lose somebody that _useful_. And, Maker help her – she's _glad_ for it. She can't stand the thought of losing him, not forever. She can't let herself imagine a time when he might not come back. She knows that his healing spells are supposed to make her feel better, but it's _him_ , and it's been so long since she's spent any time at all with him that it just _hurts_. It feels like she can't even breathe. She pulls away – breaking their connection – before he can finish the job. She takes a deep breath, fighting the tears that are threatening to fall, and she kicks the bookshelf across from her with surprising vehemence. "You just _leave,_ Anders. You don't even talk to me anymore."

"Melly..."

"Don't call me that!"

"Okay..."

She wraps her arms around her knees and huddles into a tiny ball. She no longer bothers trying to hide the tears. She's safe here. With him, in this space. Anders has always been good at finding the safe spaces, the little corners where they can hide, and tell the truth. Her shoulders shake, and she wipes her eyes, pissed at herself for losing it so easily. Not only is it dangerous, but she's supposed to be better than this. Stronger. She's supposed to have _potential_.

"You don't have to do what they tell you," Anders says softly. It's the kind of thing he used to say with a smirk on his face, teasing. But now he sounds absolutely serious.

Rhyanon glances up. " _Really_?" she asks, and her voice is cutting and cruel. "And what am I supposed to do instead? Run away?"

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it? Maybe you don't care about what happens to you, but I do! This isn't a game!"

"Don't you think I know that?"

"I don't know what you know!" She turns her back on him, wraps her arms around herself. "I just... I can't do this anymore."

"So... what? You're... breaking up with me?"

Rhyanon can't help it. She snorts. She shakes her head and wraps her arms around her knees and she can't tell if she's laughing or crying. "I can't," she spits. She makes it sound like an accusation. Like it's his fault.

"Melly, come here." Anders reaches out a hand, and Rhyanon moves closer to him. She crawls into his arms, lets him hold her. "Stay," he whispers. "Just... be here. Okay?"

She nods.

Neither of them sleep, not really, but she feels better than she has in a long time as they slip into the kitchens in the early pre-dawn light. Anders nicks a few battered apples and presses one into her hand.

"What're you _doing_?" she hisses, as he pushes open a little-used door that leads outside – to the tower's small gardens, and eventually, the thin bar of sand where the ferry sits, unused through most of the winter.

"I'm not escaping," he promises. "Just trust me. Come on."

He leaves the door open behind them and stops just a few feet from it. Rhyanon follows him, though she keeps looking over her shoulder. She licks her lips and wraps her arms around herself – it's _freezing_ out here. Her feet crunch over the frost-covered ground.

"Sit down," Anders tells her. His voice is so soft that Rhyanon can barely hear him. He's huddled in the shadow of the tower, and he looks afraid. He barely moves. Rhyanon remembers when he couldn't sit still for a second. It looks like he's been cured of that.

She sits on a decaying log, surprised that it holds her weight. She shifts over to give Anders some space, and he takes it, but he doesn't look at her. He takes a bite of his apple and sits in silence. And watches the sky.

Rhyanon sits there too, shivering slightly in the cold. More than anything, she is aware of the space between them. His fingers just barely don't touch hers, and she could reach out to close that gap. But she doesn't. She's holding her breath, and waiting for Anders to hear it.

He does, somehow, she'd known he would. He always does. He always has.

Anders reaches out and runs her fingers through her tangled hair. His touch feels hesitant, as though he might pull away at any time. But he doesn't. Rhyanon wants to relax, but there's something inside her that won't let her. It's like she's forgotten how.

" _Look_ ," Anders whispers, and she does. The sky is streaked with color: purple and pink and orange and even in the cold, she feels something spark inside her. She starts to weave her fingers through the air, trailing sparks and light between them. Her breathing grows deeper and more calm as she concentrates, shifting the colors to match the sunrise around them. "You're _really_ good," Anders tells her. She looks up, to meet his eyes. Anders brushes her hair out of her face. "Rhyanon, you are. You know that, don't you?"

She shrugs. "Yeah. I guess," she murmurs. Everybody's told her that. Except for him. He never has. She pulls away, and Anders lets her. He stares into the blinding sun and gives her space.

"I don't just mean good at magic, you know? I mean you're a good person. A good friend."

"You are too."

"You really think that?"

Rhyanon nods. "Yeah," she answers immediately. There's no question. He's always taken care of her. She grabs his hand, runs her thumb over his knuckles. "Don't you?" she asks softly.

Anders sighs, and runs his other hand through his hair. He gives her hand a squeeze. "I don't know, Rhyanon."

"So just trust me, okay?"

Anders nods. "Yeah. I trust you."

"Good. 'Cuz I trust you too."

Anders smiles uncertainly, but it's the first time Rhyanon's seen it in a long, long time. "I miss you," he admits. "When I'm out there, you know? I think about you all the time."

"Really?"

He nods. "Yeah, really. 'Course. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the promises I break and I'm sorry I'm such a fucking screwup."

"I don't care about that," Rhyanon tells him, honestly. "Anders, I don't care."

"I know."

"Come on." She scrambles to her feet and leads him back into the tower. The templars edge closer to them, getting all up in their face, and Rhyanon can feel Anders tensing up behind her but she leads the way, pushing past the patrolling guards. She grins, and _almost_ runs through the halls. For a minute, it's like she's a little kid again. And she pulls Anders behind her, keeping his hand intertwined with hers, as she slips into Irving's office for her class.

The First Enchanter doesn't even look surprised to see Anders. He just lets him hide in the corner of the room while he teaches Rhyanon. She looks over her shoulder and catches his eye whenever she can. He doesn't look comfortable – why would he, in here? - for Anders, the First Enchanter's office has never meant anything good. But he still smiles when he catches her watching, and it feels real. It feels like those secret, encouraging smiles they'd shared in Nolan's class. And just like back then, Anders digs out a scrap of paper from somewhere, and loses himself in drawing. The afternoon hours disappear more quickly than Rhyanon can remember happening in a long time. She can feel Irving watching carefully as she and Anders leave the room together, after several hours. It's almost time for dinner. She sits at a table with Anders and Jowan, and though the dark-haired boy is clearly suspicious – they haven't done this in _years_ \- somehow they still fall back into the old rhythms. It's easy. It feels safe.

They retreat to the library after the kitchens empty out, if only to steer clear of the suspcisions of the templars and senior mages who are always watching. Rhyanon consults the shelves, not looking for anything in particular, but just waiting for something about a book to catch her eye. She grabs a few at random and carries them to the table where Jowan and Anders cluster close together, each absorbed in their own work.

Rhyanon settles in next to them. She watches them while pretending she isn't. Anders is drawing – pictures of things she's never seen, and never will. Jowan is noticeably frustrated, shifting in his seat, uneasy. He scowls at the complex arcane dialogues in front of him, and she knows he doesn't understand any of it, and won't, no matter how patiently she tries to explain the old theories that their instructors demand they know.

"Hey come on, let's do something fun," Anders announces suddenly.

Jowan looks up with a look of incredible disbelief on his face. " _Here?_ " he asks incredulously.

"We used to," Anders whispers.

Jowan holds his gaze for a long time, and then nods. "Yeah. I guess we did."

They slip into the kitchens after curfew, and Rhyanon watches nervously as Anders digs up a bottle of wine that he swears won't be missed. They certainly aren't the first mages to sneak down here to get drunk – _everyone_ does it, it's one of the very few broken rules that are consistently overlooked. So although she's familiar with this routine by now, it still doesn't feel _safe_. She taps a quick beat on the stone wall behind her, letting it absorb her need for motion. Anders hands her a bottle, and she takes it without hesitation. Even Jowan, who always protests _everything_ that might get them in trouble, doesn't protest. They huddle in a corner among the crates of fruit and bags of grain, and Rhyanon lets herself relax a bit. It gets easier as the time passes. A lightheaded warmth slowly fills her as she passes the bottle of stolen wine back and forth with Anders and Jowan.

"You okay?" Anders asks, and she nods, before she realizes that the question isn't directed at her.

"Yeah," Jowan replies, unconvincingly, after a pause that lasts for several heartbeats too long. Rhyanon frowns. She sits up a little straighter, suddenly serious again. She sets the bottle down, and stares at it, watching the way the curvature of the glass catches the flickering candlelight.

"You're thinking about Esther," she whispers. Her eyes lock onto Jowan's, and she understands immediately why he's so worried. They can't predict when they will be chosen for the Harrowing, but he is almost certainly running out of time. Esther was a quiet girl, a few years older than Rhyanon, maybe a year or so older than Jowan. Despite the age difference, Rhyanon knows that she and the other girl had arrived at the Tower at pretty much the same time – Esther manifesting her true nature some time during the long weeks when Rhyanon was hauled here from Kirkwall. They'd all been in classes together when they were younger, but Rhyanon struggles to remember much about her now. If the rumors mill is right – and it usually is – the girl was born and raised in a Chantry orphanage. She didn't even have a family to be taken away from. It bothers Rhyanon more than she wants to admit, this possibility of failure, the ease with which this girl has effectively disappeared. The whispers about her among the older apprentices died out within days, stamped out by harsh reprimands and urgent reminders to concentrate on their own studies. They're not allowed to remember 'before.' They never are.

Rhyanon had attempted to light a flickering candle in the chapel in the girl's memory – it seemed like the right thing to do. But the Tower's bitter old Revered Mother blew out the flame. There's no forgiveness for mages.

"They'll kill me if I fail," Jowan says softly, and Rhyanon's stomach hurts, because she can't even deny it.

Anders grabs the bottle from where it sits in front of her, and holds it in a tight grip, without drinking. "You're not gonna fail," he insists.

Jowan only glares at him.

"I'll help," Rhyanon murmurs.

"You can't help with this," Jowan snaps.

"I bet I could."

Anders shakes his head, and drinks, straight out of the bottle, the only way they ever drink. "You can't," he says flatly. "But that's okay, because Jowan isn't gonna fail."

"And you know that for a fact?"

" _I_ passed."

A brief spark of hope flashes in Jowan's eyes. "Can you tell me what to do?"

Anders shakes his head. "You'll know," he promises. "Just... trust me, okay."

Jowan shrugs. "Yeah. Sure." He reaches over, and grabs the bottle back from Anders. Rhyanon frowns. She settles back against the wall and watches the two boys. Jowan offers her the bottle wordlessly, holding it out within her reach. But she just shakes her head.

"I'm tired," she tells them both. "I think I'm just gonna go to bed."

Anders frowns. "You sure?" he asks carefully. Rhyanon nods.

The next time she sees Anders is in Chapel. He only sits with her sometimes, but she's surprisingly okay with that. Maybe Irving was right, about people growing up and growing apart. It's enough that when she does see him, he still feels like her friend.


	7. Gyre

"Rhyanon, I'm scared," Jowan mumbles. She only nods, because she understands, of course he is, but what the hell is she supposed to say? She scratches at the lines carved into the library table by some bored kid who knows how long ago.

A few feet away from them, a boy, maybe ten years old, is mouthing off to Senior Enchanter Nolan after the man had caught him running through the stacks. Rhyanon pretends not to notice as the draconian old man 'teaches the kid some respect' in the same way always does. Jowan notices the way she flinches though. It's not like she's subtle about it. She doesn't bother hiding her scowl, and without realizing it, she's curled her hand up into a tight fist. She can still _feel_ the sting of that cane, though it hasn't touched her for almost a decade.

"You scared that you'll be called for your Harrowing? Or that you won't?" she asks Jowan softly.

It's his non-answer that locks it in for her: it's the second one. He's nearing his twentieth birthday now, an adult by every measure except the one that matters. He's still wearing apprentice robes. "I wish they'd just get it over with already," he spits.

Now, Rhyanon _does_ look up, because he sounds so desperate that she's afraid he might really do something stupid. She wishes Anders were here. Somehow, he's always known what to say, how to talk to Jowan enough to keep him _trying_ , at least for a little while longer. But Anders is gone, and has been for weeks. And although Rhyanon still makes a tiny mark in the corner of her notebook for every day he's away from her, and knows the number without having to look at it, his absence now feels more normal than his presence.

"I think you're just worrying too much," she tells Jowan.

He lets out a long sigh and starts gathering his books. "Yeah," he mutters. "I guess you're right."

Rhyanon watches him go, and doesn't follow him. He just needs space, and she knows that. He never hunts her down either when she's feeling helplessly trapped by their whole fucked up situation. It does bother her more than she'll ever say out loud, though, the fact that neither of them have any say in their future.

She goes looking for the kid Nolan had been harrassing, thinking it'd be easy enough to heal him. But he's already gone.

She doesn't feel much like studying. She never really studies, not like Jowan does, not like most people do. When she goes to the library, it's only because there's nowhere else to go, or because she's trying to hide. Or because she's trying to fit in.

There's not really much point in trying anymore though, at least not tonight, so she goes to bed early and wakes up early, and she retreats to Irving's office instead of being forced to go eat breakfast in the crowded dining hall. So this time, when Irving gets word that Anders has been recaptured, Rhyanon is _there_.

And one look is all it takes for the First Enchanter to understand that there is no way in the Void he can send her away. If he tries to, she'll just sneak around and follow him, and they both know it. Greagoir watches her with his usual grim demeanor, but he seems almost satisfied that she chooses to follow the two men in charge of the Circle. Like maybe she'll get to _really see_ the consequences of the dangerous defiance she doesn't do too well at hiding. He doesn't say as much, not in specific words, but Rhyanon's been around the Knight Commander enough to know him better than he probably thinks she does.

This time, the templars don't bother to wait. There's no suspense, everybody knows what's going to happen to Anders. She watches him, shivering in the autumn chill. He won't look at her. And she wonders, belatedly, if maybe they will kill him after all. She looks at Gregoir instead, pleading wordlessly with all that strength inside her that he won't. That whatever happens, some hope or prayer within her can still buy her best friend a chance at life.

She realizes suddenly that she never wanted this to happen. There's no conflict anymore: she had hoped – already started to believe, in a secret hidden part of her – that Anders had somehow managed to escape the Circle for real. Forever. It obviously isn't true. And this moment more than any other drives that knowledge home.

She bites her lip and won't let herself cry as she follows the oddly subdued procession to the Tower's tiny courtyard, where nothing grows and nothing happens, except punishment. Even out here, they are surrounded by thick stone walls. No breezes blow.

"Don't watch," Anders had once told her, but it's different now. She cannot safely hide. They're both on the same side of those walls now, there's nothing between him and her, no barrier to shield her from the worst of it. The thought seems brutally selfish given that he's the one they're shackling to the whipping post – he's the one who _ran_.

Anders sneaks her a glance and she tries to look calm and reassuring although she's certain she isn't fooling anyone. She does not have to be here. But it still seems like an unforgivable betrayal to leave Anders alone to take the punishment when the only difference between them is that she's too scared to go through with it even when she desperately wants to escape. She's more afraid of leaving than of staying. _Obviously_. There's still that whisper inside her telling her to run _now_ – to protect herself. To save him. But she doesn't even move, she just stands there, watching without really seeing, _feeling_ it all deep inside even when she tries to shut herself down and dull her senses.

She doesn't even try to count. She doesn't try, but she does it anyway. Too many years of doing it, she can't break the habit now. She adds the numbers without thinking.

It's hard to resolve what's actually happening as anything more than a haphazard input of unrelated images and sounds. That's easier to deal with than recognizing the fact that the blood is real, that the sound that makes her flinch is a signal of real, overwhelming pain. She doesn't cry or scream, although she is constantly, painfully aware of the part of her that wants to. She stands completely still, barely watching but unable to look away. Which is ridiculous, because they're not touching her. She can move. She's only standing there paralyzed because... why? Because she's just as trapped as he is. She's trapped _because_ he is.

She focuses on Anders, on the changes in his movement, in his breathing. She _pays attention_ when his eyes slip closed and he can draw in only ragged gasps. The templars don't seem to care. This is the _point,_ after all. It's supposed to hurt.

Rhyanon bites her lower lip and listens and tries not to look but she can't help it. Anders moans and sobs. He no longer struggles. The whip keeps cracking down, with agonizing stretches of silence and stillness in between. Each lash cuts deep and draws blood that pools dark and red. As the numbers count higher and higher, Anders relaxes, only occasionally letting out a strangled whimper, barely audible.

Far from making her feel better, his lack of response only makes the fear churn in Rhyanon's stomach, overwhelming. What if it's too much? What if they kill him? Thirty lashes can kill someone, she's pretty sure.

Before she can think, she runs out into the center of the courtyard, directly in the path of the whip. She puts herself in between Anders and the implement of torture. She shields him with her body and swears to herself and to him that she won't let them kill him. She just hopes it's not too late.

It _is_ too late for the templar administering the punishment to stop the downward cut of the whip. Or maybe he just doesn't care. Rhyanon flinches, somehow managing to think enough to throw her arm up to shield her face. The braided leather cord wraps around her upper arm and cuts across her shoulder.

The pain doesn't hit instantly. There is a flash of white, blinding agony that overwhelms her suddenly. She gasps and struggles to get control of her breathing. Tears sting her eyes in an uncontrolled reaction, and she chokes out a whimpering cry.

"Get out of the way, girl," the templar snarls.

Rhyanon is vaguely aware of the blood flowing down her arm and staining her robes. Her head is ringing as she tries to compensate for the pain. Time seems to be moving incredibly slowly. The adrenaline pounds through her system. She can't process the question. She can't process anything but pain. And the threatening smirk on the face of the templar holding the whip. He shrugs, and raises the lash again.

"Don't much matter to me, mageling," he sneers.

He's going to hit her again. Panic begins to overwhelm her as she recognizes this.

She starts to scramble to her feet, but before she can get anywhere, armored arms wrap around her. She cries and thrashes uselessly. Her fists pound down against the smooth steel, but the templar holds her still.

And she's forced to watch, helplessly, as the punishment continues. Slowly. Deliberately. The whip cuts deeply and the templar is enjoying it. He flashes her a grin, and laughs. And the templar holding her won't let her break away.

Eventually, the lashes stop. She lost the count a long time ago. It might be less than thirty. It might be more. It doesn't matter. She twists and struggles out of the templar's grasp, without caring for the consequences. She sees nothing but Anders, limp and bleeding, left alone and barely conscious in the dirt as the templars untie him and let him fall.

The red stains her robes, but she doesn't notice. She knows her touch must hurt him, but he doesn't seem to care. He's too far gone even to pull away from the pain she must be causing. His breathing comes in sporadic shallow gasps. She can't help him – not really, not enough – not with the wards pressing down on her consciousness, carefully woven by the templars before the punishment even started to ensure that Anders felt every ounce of pain. It doesn't stop her from trying; maybe a little bit will be enough.

She barely notices the pain in her own arm anymore. It doesn't seem to matter. She bites her lip and wraps him carefully in what little flickers of healing magic she can manage. Anders stirs and moans, and his eyes flutter open. His hazy focus lingers on the raw gash across her shoulder, and Rhyanon can feel him tensing up. She squeezes his hand and shakes her head as her other hand brushes the tangles of sweaty hair out of his eyes.

"Go to sleep, Anders," she whispers. His eyelids drift closed again, and his breathing relaxes. She can't tell if it's because of her minor talents at healing or his own. The flow of mana comes easier to her now, easier than it should. It feels like a heavy blanket has been lifted from her shoulders. She's aware that the antimagic field is _gone –_ the templars have dropped their ward. She frowns, as suspicion and worry heighten her senses and claw at her stomach. The hair on the back of her neck stands on end. She tells herself to _calm down,_ and she manages, a little. She replaces worry with anger as Anders stiffens, feeding off of her heightened emotions.

"Everything's fine," she lies, refusing to let go of him.

He whines a little, pulling away from her touch. "I know," he mumbles. His words are slurred and barely audible. "Love you," he whispers.

The confession hits her like an electric spark, through every nerve. It paralyzes her. It's enough to unleash the tears she's been struggling so hard to hold back. She wipes them away, reflexively, but it does nothing. "Don't say it unless you mean it," she warns him. But he's slipped out of consciousness again. The deep cuts of the whip still mark him. Rhyanon shivers and sits, still and desperate and crying uncontrollably on the hard-packed dirt. She runs her fingers through his hair. She lets her fingers press close to his skin, close enough to feel the warmth of his body and the thrum of his heartbeat.

A year in solitary. A yell nearly tears itself from her throat, but she doesn't let it.

Irving pulls her away gently. She fights him half-heartedly, but she cannot summon the energy to resist as he tuts over her blood-stained robes and tear-streaked face.

"I need to make sure he's okay."

"He's..." Irving stops. "You've done what you could," he reminds her. "He'll heal up on his own, now."

"It isn't fair!" Rhyanon cries, though she knows it's a useless protest. And she is aware, even as she says it, of the all-too-familiar sensation of someone watching her. She spins back around, to see the same young templar who had shielded her through the last of the punishment carefully studying her. Rage threatens to overwhelm her, but she is too exhausted to fight.

"You dropped the ward," she whispers. The templar just nods. He doesn't apologize or offer any sort of justification. He walks away without looking at her, and that fills Rhyanon with a bizarre sense of satisfaction. It's the way things _should_ be. She needs someone to be angry at, she can't afford confusion when it comes to the templars. She doesn't want this one being _nice_ to her, not even a little bit.

A _year_. Rhyanon curls her hand into a fist and pulls herself out of Irving's arms.

Some of the other templars haul Anders roughly to his feet, shoving him toward the dungeon cell that will be his home for the next countless eternity.

Irving holds Rhyanon back with a strength that is surprising for his age. "Go calm down," he insists. There is no room in his tone for argument.

She seethes, but pulls herself out of his arms and follows his orders.

She curls up on her bed, shoving herself into the tiny corner created where the bunk slams against the wall. Her arms wrap tight around her knees and she cries silent tears. The deep cut across her shoulder throbs in time with her heartbeat.

She glances up, only briefly, when she hears a shifting movement, someone sitting on the bunk across from hers. She can't help the old habit that makes her immediately think it must be Anders – that's his bed. But Anders hasn't slept in the apprentice dorms for years. Just because nobody's taken over his spot doesn't mean she can go back in time or anything. No matter how much she wants to.

"What happened?" Jowan whispers. Sitting on the bunk across from her, he leans over close enough that he can touch her. He gently rests her hand atop her kneecap.

Rhyanon looks up and sniffles. She bites her lip, trying – and failing - to stop crying. She shakes her head. "He promised," she whines.

Jowan says nothing. He simply moves over to her bed, wraps her up in his arms. "I know," he says softly. Rhyanon curls up against his body without thinking. She shivers and squirms as his thumb gently traces the raw cut of the whip. She hisses with pain, but she doesn't pull away. She feels safe with Jowan, she feels protected. And more than anything else, she doesn't want to be alone.

Her heartbeat speeds up as Jowan presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head. His fingers tangle into her long hair, it's a complete mess – _she's_ a complete mess, covered in blood and sweat and dirt - but Jowan doesn't seem to care. They are surrounded by silence except for the sound of their ragged breathing.

Rhyanon starts crying again, and she hates it, but she can't stop herself. Deep heaving sobs that make her whole body shake. She grabs onto Jowan, so tightly that it must hurt. Her fingernails scratch against his arm, and he flinches, but he won't let go, so she doesn't either. She squirms in his arms, with a desperate, choking whimper, and he silences her with another kiss. He runs his thumb down her jawline, and gently brushes his lips over hers. She breathes, a long exhalation, and she rests still against his body, briefly.

She gasps as a wave of mana fills her, flickering tendrils of potential, but they do not come from her. She smiles weakly at Jowan. The energy surges through her body, like lightning, it charges her, it makes everything feel more real. Jowan's body, pressed against her, feels warm and comfortable, and _safe_ , and she can barely breathe, and where his fingers touch her skin she doesn't hurt as badly anymore. It feels good, but it feels like a lie. It's easy to push back against the intrusion of magic, her mental shields are strong, trained for years. It's harder to push Jowan away, but she does it.

She bites her lip and holds her breath as she stares at him. He looks so scared – she can see the flickers of fear in his eyes, and something else too, something harder: anger, and determination. She's afraid he'll go away, leave her alone. But she's afraid to ask him to stay, too. Because when she asks for things, they only get taken away.

Jowan's dark hair falls into his eyes in a tangled heap; in this unguarded moment they are both vulnerable to the loss of control they have been warned against for years, decades. In this unguarded moment, neither of them care.

Jowan's breathing calms, it's deep and steady, and it makes Rhyanon feel a little better. He takes her hand, and she lets him. His skin feels warm and soft; her fingers still fit in his. He squeezes gently, and she squeezes back. She tilts her head back to look at him. She still doesn't know how to tell him what she's feeling; she's afraid to admit how desperately alone she is. "Jowan," she murmurs. She can't say anything else. She pulls away from him, retreats into herself again.

But he won't let her. He reaches out and traces his thumb across her cheek.

Her breathing grows louder, so does her heartbeat. He continues tracing his touch along the gentle curves of her body; cheek, neck, shoulder... she flinches when he hits that raw wound, and looks up. She's stopped crying, but it still feels like she's about to, like anything could push her over the edge again. Her shoulder still hurts.

Jowan wraps her up in a tight hug. "You're okay," he whispers. His fingers trail down her spine, and this time, when he heals her, she lets him. It's a simple, hesitant attempt that reminds her of the first time she'd tried to learn, years ago. But it unknots the tension inside her. He's trying to help, and she needs that. "It's not your fault," he reminds her. His breathing hiccups a little bit as he talks, repeating the same argument they've never stopped having since Anders's inability to follow the rules or keep his promises shoved a wedge into their friendship.

"Fuck you!" she spits. Of _course_ it isn't her fault. He shouldn't even feel the need to say it. She shoves him away, hard, and screams out an overwhelming yelling cry, like a little kid. She punches him, over and over, and although it hurts and Jowan tries to grab her, she keeps fighting her way out of his grasp. She slams her fists into the soft flesh of his body, knowing she's better at fighting than he is, she's practiced more, they've _made_ her practice more.

"Dammit, Rhyanon, this isn't _fair_!" Jowan snaps.

His voice sounds just slightly strained, and he doesn't cover his wince nearly as well as he might've thought. Rhyanon bites her lip and turns away, to scratch her fingernail at the rough, scratched wood of Anders's bed beneath her.

Rhyanon nods. No, it isn't. It never was.

She shivers, and tucks herself against Jowan's body as he wraps his arms around her. He doesn't even say anything about her violent outburst.

She can feel someone watching her, despite the fact that Jowan tries to shield her. The templars are _always_ watching them. Rhyanon can shake it off most of the time. But it feels different now. She doesn't relax until the red-haired templar walks away, continuing his patrol.

She rests her head on Jowan's shoulder, and he strokes her back in gentle circles. She can tell he's waiting for her to pull away again – she can't blame him, it's all she ever does. But she doesn't. She clings to him instead, determined to fix this. To give him what he wants; what they both need.

Her fingers dig into the back of Jowan's neck; with her other hand, she tugs at his robes, pulling at where his tunic loosens. She begins peeling that clothing away, seeking heat and contact, skin to skin, seeking comfort, understanding, a way to forget... Jowan pulls her closer too. She can feel his heartbeat fluttering beneath her fingertips. He gulps down a massive swallow of air.

"I'm not the one you want," he protests, but she doesn't care. She's so broken and desperate and weak, and so is he. The Circle is crushing both of them, killing them. They can't save each other, but they can cling to each other on the way down. Can't they?

She pulls off her robes, and with the bloodstained cloth tossed away she feels better, capable of forgetting the worst things, at least enough to move forward. Jowan's fingers skip over her now-naked body, with uncertain movements. She squirms and shivers beneath his touch; the contrast of his warm body against the chill of the room.

"Rhyanon, I can.. stop," Jowan breathes. She shakes her head and reaches out, before she can stop herself. She cries softly, burrowing into his shoulder, as his thumb brushes over her hardened nipple. Rhyanon whines and takes his wrist and guides his hand between her legs. She moans and cries out as he pushes, in and out, faster and faster in response to her rapid breathing and desperate attempts to push back.

The room doesn't feel cold anymore. Rhyanon swears her skin right now is hotter than anything she's ever felt. Jowan slides into her and she cries again, sudden sound that makes them both flinch. He drives deeper and deeper, harder, faster, dumping pain, fear, frustration, and rage into the motion. Rhyanon's tears soak her skin, she buries her face into the crook of Jowan's neck. The spiking perfect line of pain she'd been fighting so hard to ignore has diffused now, into a dull ache of guilt and uncertainty and fear. Jowan gathers her in his arms again.

"Does it hurt?" he whispers softly, and who knows what he's talking about: the sex, the still-raw scar, everything else. She shrugs. 'I don't know' is as good an answer as any.

Jowan burrows his face in his hands and sighs, unable to voice the fear and frustration that is so much a part of their daily life. It's already starting to creep in again, she can't push it away. She traces her fingers along the inside of Jowan's wrist, rippling over the sensitive skin there. He trembles briefly, and holds her tighter. There are no more tears inside of her.

She shakes her head, feeling empty, entirely spent. "It doesn't hurt," she whispers.

Jowan nods, and holds her, and for a minute, for _five seconds_ , it doesn't matter that both of them are lying.


	8. One Way Lines

Rhyanon stalks the halls of the tower like a ghost. She begins to look forward to the brutal training sessions that drain her completely and leave her too exhausted to feel much of anything.

Jowan shies away from her, in the very rare times that circumstances force them together at all. It seems like their friendship is fraying without Anders there to bind them together – or maybe it's just too weird for him to talk about the thing that had happened between them.

"I don't blame you, you know?" she whispers softly, one day when she has him cornered in the hallway outside the dorms. He glares at her. "What, are we supposed to pretend it never happened?"

"Most people do," he grunts.

"Yeah, well, I'm not most people. Neither are you."

She draws herself up on tiptoe, trying to bring herself to his level. She wonders how she never noticed how much taller Jowan is. "Come on," she begs softly.

He shakes his head. "I can't."

"Why _not_?"

"Because," he answers shakily. "Because you deserve someone better than me."

"Maybe," she concedes. "But you're all I've got."

"Don't say that," he insists. "Please, Rhyanon, don't."

She shrugs. "It's true, isn't it?"

He doesn't answer. She's not sure that she expected him to.

She watches him disappear down the tightly spiraling corridor, giving him several long seconds to change his mind and turn back. But he doesn't.

So she pushes her way into the dorms, empty now, in the middle of the afternoon. She curls up on her bed. She doesn't even care that someone might walk in and see her. Like everyone else in the tower, she gave up on the expectation of privacy long ago. She slips her hand between her legs and tries to fill the aching emptiness.

She's never been jealous of Anders. Well, maybe the fact that he can just _find_ people who want to have sex with him, and then walk away without it seeming to matter. She'd say it's just a guy thing – that seems to be the general consensus among the girls, when she totally-isn't-on-purpose listening to them in the bathroom. But sex matters to Jowan, obviously, because things are nothing but weird between them now. She tries, and fails, to satisfy even physical needs, which should be easy enough. Maybe she's doing it wrong. It's not like there's anybody she can _ask_.

She scowls, rearranging her robes and dragging out some textbooks, pretending to study. It's an easy way to be left alone. The problem is, she doesn't _want_ to be left alone. But she's spent enough time saying that she does that people believe her now. It's a comfortable arrangement. Messing with it would just cause problems.

She hears a quiet tromping, and she can't help the sudden pickup of her heart rate. She knows what armored boots sound like, even if the templar currently passing by is trying to be oddly polite about interrupting her. She glances up, and wraps her fingers tightly around the leather-bound spine of the book in her lap. Her hair is a wild mess around her face, falling out of the tie that she'd started the day with. She doesn't have time to fix it. Not that she wants to. Why would she want to?

She clears her throat softly, trying to clear the blockage she feels, a nervous closed-up reflex that makes it too hard to breathe. She waits for the templar to walk by. But he _doesn't_.

He watches her instead, with those deep brown eyes, soft and... _worried_. Neither of them speak. He won't stop _looking_ at her, but somehow it feels different than when the other templars stare. It's still uncomfortable, because she knows this one. Not his name, not anything about him. Except that he was there, holding her still when she wanted to fight. Refusing to let her get hurt. She scratches at the still-healing scar at her shoulder without realizing she's doing it. She stops immediately as soon as the templar speaks.

"Are you... alright?" he asks softly.

She glares at him. She can feel the tension running all through her body, It doesn't dissipate. If anything, it only grows more noticeable. She feels like she can barely keep herself from squirming. She shows nothing on the outside.

The man looks away before their eyes meet, and Rhyanon can hear his footsteps hurrying down the empty halls, echoing off the stone.

The encounter, if it can be called that – was it an unspoken conversation? Was it _anything_? - leaves her rattled.

She leaves her books in a messy pile on her unmade bed and goes wandering the tower's spiraling halls. She can't get away from the templars, not anywhere, not _ever_ , but at least she doesn't have to sit alone haunted by memories and unanswerable questions.

She finds one of the training rooms, with targets set up for her to throw fire and lightning at. The place feels bigger and emptier now than it ever has when she's been down here with classmates and teachers, watching her every move. But there are other people here. _Real_ mages, who she watches as she hovers in the doorway. They look strong and powerful. Their mana pulls at hers, she can feel the resonance inside her. And she becomes aware, almost immediately, that there is some kind of clarity to her way of seeing and feeling that they just don't have. They're trying too hard. They're doing it wrong.

Without thinking, she's stepped nearly to the middle of the room. One of the Harrowed mages clears his throat. He narrows his eyes, and studies her. "What're you doing here, kid?"

Rhyanon snorts. There is an age gap between them – he must be at least thirty, but Rhyanon doesn't feel intimidated by adults. She never has.

"Aw, Stephen, let her try," a young woman says. Her voice sounds almost like laughter, a soft lilt. Orlesian, maybe, Rhyanon thinks. She's old too – old enough that Rhyanon doesn't know her. She was probably Harrowed already by the time Rhyanon came to the Tower.

Now that they are watching her, Rhyanon feels like this has suddenly become some sort of test. She shakes her head. "I'll just watch," she says quietly. "If that's okay."

"Wait, I know you," the man says. "You're Irving's little genius."

"I guess," Rhyanon replies. An answer that doesn't mean anything.

"Let me see what you can do," he presses.

Rhyanon is still tense, alert to everything. She analyzes the targets they've set up, she can see and feel the invisible lines that echo the power they've woven and spun in this room recently. That constant presence of magic makes the space feel warmer than it should. It's one of the few places in the tower that always feels _alive._ Maybe that's why she comes here.

"I don't know the rules," she points out cautiously.

He rolls his eyes, making it a challenge.

The Orlesian woman smiles. Even her _smile_ is soft, somehow. But she must be stronger than she appears. She's here, isn't she? "Nobody's watching you," she points out. Well, _they_ are, but Rhyanon knows what she means. No templars. They are close, they're never far away. But these two are Harrowed. There's no threat of punishment. Not for _practicing_ wrong.

Rhyanon sighs. "Fine," she announces. She knows she sounds sullen and defensive and like a teenage girl, determined to prove herself. But that's better than _not_ proving herself. Isn't it?

Fire comes easy to her, so she starts with that. She spins cracking flames between her hands, watching them dance and leap in ever more complex patterns. Control is easy when the product of her mana remains in contact with her body. It looks impressive, but it's functionally useless. And she knows she can do better than that.

She glances at Stephen, making sure he's clear of the path between her and the target. Then she takes a deep breath, and launches her fireball. It coalesces as it travels toward the magically-fireproofed dummy. The crackling weaves of flame are now condensed into a tight, quickly spinning sphere about the size of her closed fist. It impacts solidly, flattening against the dummy's chest, flaring out in a burst of bright light and leaving nothing behind but a darkened smear of ash.

She turns around and smirks at Stephen and the Orlesian woman.

"Not bad," the woman concedes.

Stephen rolls his eyes. "Fight her," he dares his companion.

"She is a child."

"She'll be Harrowed soon."

Rhyanon licks her lips. "Really?" Her internal walls, suspiscion and questions, flare up immediately.

"What do you think?" Stephen asks her.

Rhyanon nods. She knows he's right. She's _ready_. It's something she can feel, and she can see it in the way Irving looks at her, too. Her stomach clenches in fear., but she pushes it down easily enough. It isn't overwhelming fear, just her familiar constant companion, a quick flutter of butterfly wings against her insides. After a moment, she doesn't even notice it anymore.

"What's it like?" she asks softly.

"The Harrowing?" Stephen clarifies needlessly. Rhyanon nods. "You know I can't tell you that."

The Orlesian woman trails her fingers lightly down Rhyanon's arm. "Don't worry about it," she insists, in her musical tones.

She fights much more gracefully than the brutal warmages Rhyanon normally trains with. There are no viscious attacks that will kill her if she doesn't protect herself quickly enough or retaliate with equal strength. Instead, this woman is smooth and subtle. She distracts Rhyanon with sparks of dancing light, drawing her attention away before she comes at her with a knife so sharp that Rhyanon doesn't even feel it until she becomes aware of the blood painting her stomach. She frowns. "That's not -"

The Orlesian laughs. "Are you going to ask for _fairness_ , girl? You know better." She lashes out with her open hand and attempts to slap Rhyanon's exposed skin. Rhyanon ducks away, and the Orlesian woman grins. "Good." She stops the fight as suddenly as she'd begun it. This is a game to her, easy enough to break away from. But the abrupt end to the challenge makes Rhyanon feel dangerously unsettled. She perches on the balls of her feet and glares at the targets around her. Unspent mana coils close around her skin. Rhyanon breathes in, out, in, slow, practiced exhalations. "I can see why Irving likes you," the Orlesian woman purrs. "You're smart. You don't make many mistakes."

"Thanks?"

"Don't get cocky," Stephen warns.

"Because pride is a dangerous sin?" Rhyanon spits back sarcastically.

"Because you'll get killed."

He hands Rhyanon a canteen full of water. She drinks greedily. She tries to work the tension out of her muscles. It doesn't help much. The exhaustion of draining mana in a session like this one doesn't have much of a physical source, but that doesn't make it any less of a problem. More of one, actually. "Thanks," she says aloud. For the water. And for the fight. "Most people tend to... ignore me, I guess," she points out. She hadn't expected anyone to pull her away from her lurking in the shadows. But she feels better now that someone has.

"Don't mention it," Stephen replies.

Rhyanon nods, and sips more slowly this time. She watches these two _adults_ , who seem like they're on a level she'll never reach, and wonders what their secrets are.

She remembers old conversations with Wynne, and curiosity flickers inside her. She does feel better. Calmer, now that she's worked out some of her agression, and given an outlet to some of the tension inside of her.

"Have you guys ever left the Tower?" she asks eagerly.

Stephen looks away, enough to make Rhyanon guarded. She's afraid of his answer even before he gives it. "Yeah," he answers gruffly.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," he tells her flatly. It's obvious that, as far as he's concerned, the conversation is closed. She won't push him. It would be extremely hypocritical, wouldn't it? She knows about secrets.

She nods, and gets to her feet. "Do you think I could train with you again?" she finally asks cautiously. She wonders why she hadn't thought of it before. It's another unspoken rule of the tower, an invisible barrier, enforced by tradition if not law: apprentices just don't mix with Harrowed mages. They don't have anything in common. The Harrowing is a one-way line, you don't go backwards from it. But she's already broken that rule with Anders, even if it feels different with him because he breaks every other rule.

Stephen nods. "I think I'd like that."

He walks her to the apprentice dorms, smiling the whole while. Rhyanon wonders why she feels guilty when she catches Jowan watching them. She's allowed to have friends. Just because she _doesn't_ , that doesn't mean she's not allowed to. She's supposed to have friends. Normal people do, even in the Tower.

Rhyanon slips off her bed after a few moments, looking to catch up with Jowan, but he's already gone. Which she figures is just as well because she knows she'd be tempted to apologize to him and she didn't even do anything wrong. She feels good about her newfound confidence and her friend-making ability for about as long as it takes her to wake up in the middle of the night and notice that Jowan's bunk is still empty. She can't fall back to sleep. There's a sense of _something-wrong_ , a foreboding that squeezes against every muscle in her body.

She manages – barely – to stay in bed until the gray predawn light starts creeping in the faraway, too high windows of the apprentice dorms. That light doesn't quite reach her bed, which is still shrouded in shadow, but it's enough to gauge the time. She can justify her inability to sit still now. She can get up without arousing suspicion.

Her twitchy need to get away combines awkwardly with the weight of her worry, slowing down her steps as she heads for Irving's office. That uncertainty keeps her from barging in, and it's the reason she's standing there stupidly in front of the door when Jowan throws it open. He doesn't even acknowledge her, just walks past her like she's not even there.

Rhyanon frowns at him, stranded halfway in and halfway out of the room, for what feels like a long time, before Irving tells her to shut the door.

"What was that about?" she asks carefully. It's too early. Most days Jowan's still asleep at this hour. She should be too. Even in something as pointless as this, she can't help but be constantly aware of what she's supposed to do or not do.

"I can't tell you," Irving replies simply.

Rhyanon crosses her arms over her chest. "You tell me _everything._ "

"Do you really think that?" Irving asks, as he raises an eyebrow.

"No," Rhyanon admits. "But it's _Jowan_."

Irving frowns, and puts his hand on her shoulder. She _almost_ pulls it away. She's not a little kid anymore, easily comforted. "What's wrong?" she asks forcefully. It's obvious that something _is_ wrong. But something is always wrong. What else is new?

Her stomach hurts when she recognizes his hesitation. There's a continuum of wrong in the Tower, running from 'always-every day' to 'really, dangerously wrong.' And she can tell from the look in Irving's eyes, from the way he won't let go of her, that this is the latter.

" _Tell me_ ," she insists.

"I can't."

Her heart starts thundering beneath her ribcage, beating so quickly that she can feel it hurting inside, squeezing. Rhyanon wraps her arms tightly around herself to prevent her body from breaking. She trembles, fighting the intensity of her own fear. "Is it Anders?" she whispers. "Did something happen?"

Irving holds her gaze for a long moment that only makes her fear grow more intense. The First Enchanter finally shakes his head. "Jowan has asked for the Rite of Tranquility," he says. His voice shakes just a little.

The words don't register at first, but as she processes the sounds into sentence and meaning, the cold shock of it feels physical. Every part of her body protests violently against the idea. Her skin feels too tight. Her insides feel too heavy. She tries to force this to make sense, and can't. The idea slips away from her grasp, it won't settle. She won't _let_ it settle. She won't let it happen!

"You can't do this!" Rhyanon screams desperately. "You _can't_."

"He asked," Irving tells her gently.

"Liar! It's your fault!" She flails against him, helplessly, trusting that he'll let her. She doesn't really hurt him, she's not thinking enough for that. "You don't think he's good enough, you never have." She glares at the First Enchanter. "He's better than you think," she demands. "He won't fail."

"It's not my decision to make."

"I hate you!"

Irving doesn't look at her. He doesn't chastise her for screaming at him. He doesn't say anything at all. It makes Rhyanon feel even worse. If he would argue with her, she might feel like she had even a small chance of changing things. Like it wasn't already a lost cause.

She doesn't know when it happens. They never know. She remembers the girl in the library her first weeks here. She's probably still there, but Rhyanon finds she can't remember anymore. She doesn't _look_ for the Tranquil. They fade into the background. She doesn't want Jowan to fade into the background, but he will, because that's what being Tranquil _means_ , and she hates him for making that choice and she hates herself because she's making his choice about her and how she'll feel.

She feels impossibly guilty. Why couldn't she change his mind? Why didn't he _tell_ her?

She survives the day, somehow, moving on muscle memory. That night, when she goes to the dorms, it's without any hope of anything getting better.

She tucks herself into the shadowed corner where Anders's bunk meets the wall. She glances up, through the gaps of light created by the temporary removal of Jowan's mattress from the bed above her. There are other apprentices in the dorms, but their chatter doesn't touch her. Her fingers scrape the deep, splintered grooves in the wood where Anders had hacked with a pocket knife when he was bored.

She nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears footsteps; too close and too quiet. Her heart catches in her throat when she realizes that it's Jowan. He looks the same, except... calmer. Steady. _More_ confident somehow. She swallows hard, and stares at him. She knows she probably shouldn't, but she can't help herself. His eyes hold hers – that never used to happen. She already misses his nervous stammer, and his gentle awkwardness.

"You promised," she demands. The words come out soft, despite their force.

It doesn't matter that no one can hear them, all their old promises have been broken anyway.

He _had_ promised – all three of them had, one night when they were drinking down in the kitchens. They'd agreed that Tranquility was no kind of life, that they'd rather die if it ever came to that. But even then, there'd been a certain hesitation. As if none of them were _sure_. Anders wouldn't meet her eyes. Jowan didn't drink. And Rhyanon's stomach hurt because she wasn't sure what she was supposed to say. It felt like her best friends were fighting even though they weren't. It felt like she was losing something she couldn't get back. Even though she hadn't yet.

"It is an acceptable outcome," Jowan tells her. She punches him, hard, in the arm, and the pain registers on his features, but he says nothing. She can almost read the thoughts sorting themselves through his brain, coming to the logical conclusion that saying something wouldn't change the pain he feels. She punches him again.

"Please stop," he says emotionlessly. She stops.

She feels guilty. Jowan doesn't. Jowan doesn't feel anything.

That night when Rhyanon falls asleep, her dreams tangle up in a twisted landscape that haunts her even though she can't remember any of it when she wakes up.

She goes back to the training room, following a path of least resistance. She's not looking for Stephen. She's not looking for anyone. But he's there.

She remembers his promise to practice with her, to help her get ready for her Harrowing. It doesn't seem to matter anymore. But he wouldn't know that. How could he?

"Were you waiting for me?" she asks softly.

He shakes his head, letting his messy curls fall into his eyes. "No. But I'm not sorry you're here."

She nods. It feels so awkward, standing in front of him. Like he can see everything that's wrong with her, without her even saying a word.

It's only the two of them. It's early, before dawn, before the Chantry service. She didn't even know you _could_ come down here at this time of day. But who'll stop them? She hates this time of morning, but she's always up anyway. Too many years of being forced into it. And now, when she might be left alone, as she is when she skips class or wanders the tower's mostly empty halls, there are too many bad dreams. She gets only restless snatches of sleep and wakes up far sooner than she wants or needs to.

She pushes past the tiredness and forces herself to focus. The room seems almost silent. Rhyanon can hear little more than their breathing and the occasional crackle of lightning as she lets the sparks play between her fingers. She doesn't wait for Stephen's permission this time. She almost dares him to throw something at her. She can feel the equal-and-opposite tension of both of their mana, wrapped around them, pushing off each other and filling the space of the room.

Stephen puts up a shield first, a magical wall that she has no hope of breaking through. She doesn't try to. Instead, She throws pure, unshaped mana at his feet, telekinetic force that sends him crashing to the ground. He scrambles back up quickly, but she's bought herself time. He's stronger than she is, physically, but she's better with magic. It takes her less time to cast, she doesn't have to think about it nearly as much. Things just _flow_ , before she's even aware of what she wants. Lightning flows into fire, and she launches it at the targets painting the wall, dodging easily as Stephen attempts to distract her. She sticks her tongue out at him, and he takes advantage of her momentary loss of focus, wrapping his fingers in a tight lock around her wrist. A surge of electricity jolts through her nerves – not enough to damage her, just enough to _feel_.

"Ow!" she snaps. "What in the Void is wrong with you?!"

Stephen only laughs, and that gives her permission to hurt him back. She doesn't worry about defense, or shielding herself. She just _attacks_. It feels so damned good to just let go of everything.

He holds his own. He's strong enough not to let her hurt him. He defends himself with magic more than physically, most of them do. He's cocky, and he lets her be cocky too. He stretches her abilities far more than her usual trainers, who force her to do what they say, with the templars constantly right on top of her, threatening punishment at even a hint of a mistake.

"Come on, Amell, hit me!" Stephen yells.

She shakes her head. She has to wait until he's not ready, until he doesn't expect it. She can feel the pressure of his mana, coiled potential waiting to be unleashed. She holds her breath, and tries to calculate. She can't predict what he might do, but she also can't stop herself from _trying_ to predict him.

He watches her too. She can feel his eyes tracking every subtle shift of movement that might telegraph her intentions. She knows he expects her to go at him with magic. She thinks about it, and she doesn't think about it. The power flowing through her veins _wants_ to be unleashed. But she controls it, and she throws herself at Stephen instead, with her whole body.

She pins him to the ground, clawing and kicking, raging not so much against him as against everything wrong that she can't fight.

Stephen grabs her wrists and locks them above her head, but he lets her win. He lets go of her suddenly, and tells her that he forfeits. He laughs as he does so, making it a game despite the reality of the deadly forces they've both been playing with. Their fire may be conjured, but it still burns. That's the _point_.

Rhyanon rolls away of him and takes a few moments to catch her breath. Stephen gets up first. He walks across the room, and takes a couple of towels from a nearby bench before throwing one at her. She stands up to, towel in hand, and walks over to him.

"Not bad, kid," he concedes.

"I'm not a kid," she demands.

Stephen wipes the worst of the sweat from his face and sits down, keeping his limbs loose and relaxed, looking almost meditative. He nods. "No," he agrees calmly. "You're not."

Rhyanon, relaxes too, although in reality it's more like letting exhaustion overtake her. She shivers as her sweat dries slowly against her skin. Stephen wraps his arm around her, and she lets him. She clings to his warmth and his solidity. He's so close to her that it feels like he's breathing with her lungs. She can feel the puffs of air against the back of her neck as he exhales. He kisses her softly. Rhyanon tenses up, for just a few heartbeats, a hiccup in their tandem breathing. If Stephen notices, he shows no sign.

"I thought you had a thing for the Orlesian," Rhyanon mumbles, as he plays with her hair. She wants to sound suspicious, but it comes out slurred and sleepy.

"Marie?" He laughs and shakes his head. "No way. Absolutely not."

"But she's... better for you."

"Why? Because she's older than you?"

Rhyanon nods. "How old are you?" she asks. Her voice sounds soft and strained.

"Twenty-eight," he tells her. His callused fingers trace up her bare skin, playing with the hem of her robes, gathering in loose pools of fabric at her elbow.

"That's not that old."

"It's ancient," he teases.

Rhyanon slaps his hand lightly. Stephen ignores her, or seems to. But Rhyanon suddenly realizes that the gentle patter of his fingers on her skin has suddenly disappeared. Though his warm skin still rests on hers, he doesn't push. "I can stop, if you want to," he says softly. "I can... we can pretend this never happened." He makes sure she's looking him in the eye.

Rhyanon shakes her head. The way he says it makes it clear that he's done it before. But Rhyanon still wants to believe that she's special. Or else, she's just beyond caring. She so desperately _wants_ to be beyond caring.

She pushes herself up onto her knees, but she cannot summon the strength to stand up or run away. She's paralyzed by indecision, pulled apart by _want_ and _don't want_. "No," she insists, in a broken whine. "Don't stop. I want..." she starts to hiccup, to almost cry.

"Hey," Stephen whispers. He traces his thumb underneath her eye, catching her tears. Her eyelashes tickle his fingers. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just..." She shakes her head. "I _can't_."

"Okay."

"It's not you."

"It's okay," he repeats. He starts to pull away from her, but she grabs him.

She clings to him, she won't let go. "It's just that every time..." she shrugs, sobbing helplessly in his arms. "People always get taken away from me."

Stephen doesn't try to tell her that she's wrong. He just holds her. "Talk to me," he says softly. "Just... talk. I'll listen."

She doesn't talk; she freezes up in his arms. But he lets her freeze. He holds her, and whispers soothing words. His fingers trace over her skin, calming her. He might be manipulating her emotions with magic so subtle that she can't even tell for sure. She doesn't mind. It's been so long since she hasn't felt like everything is falling apart around her.

Stephen's fingers suddenly stop exploring, and Rhyanon's stomach clenches as she realizes that he's pulling down the collar of her shirt, revealing the whiplash cutting across her shoulder. She'd forgotten about it. She forgets about it all the time. It doesn't seem like a big deal anymore. But Stephen traces the scar, and hisses angrily. She shrugs him off, and covers it again. "It's not a big deal," she demands.

"If you say so."

"I'm just gonna go... I have to study."

"You don't have to lie to me, you know."

She sighs. "I know. I'm... sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just tell me the truth."

"The truth is... I need space. It's not you."

He kisses the top of her forehead gently, sending a spike of fiery guilt running through her whole body. "I know," he whispers. "It's this place."

Rhyanon nods. At least he understands.


	9. Endorphins

The days after her brief, tantalizing _almost_ with Stephen only fill Rhyanon with a bottomless sense of emptiness and _can't_. She's been forced to realize, with new clarity, all of the things she is not allowed to have. She'd always known that, as a mage, she'd never be allowed to have children, or any kind of long term relationship, or love. It hadn't mattered, then. She hadn't wanted it. She isn't sure if she wants it now, but the hole she's trying to fill seems all consuming. It hurts as badly as a physical pain, it exhausts her with its heavinesss. Nightmares haunt her. They never go away, not completely. She wakes up with her heart thundering in her chest and her breath stolen by panic.

A vial of artificial energy is enough to get her through the day, but it can't combat the lethargy she feels. She keeps to herself in the dining room, listening to the hushed chatter all around her. She pushes her potato hash around on her plate instead of eating. She stuffs a bite or two into her mouth, then gives the rest of it to a scrawny younger boy who reminds her too much of Jowan, despite being an elf. The kid flashes her a shy smile and whispers a thank you, and her heart aches because she can't do anything for him except give him a plate of half-eaten mush.

She scowls at the templars guarding the room, but, predictably, they don't react. She almost – _almost_ – wishes that they would. It might be nice to fight; to feel, to let someone else _notice_ that she's feeling. Tension and fear and anticipation all twist up inside of her, enough to make her stomach hurt. The pressure is intense and neverending and it feels like she's been holding her breath for so long that she's not even breathing, like she hasn't been breathing for years.

She cannot bring herself to pretend to study, and the climb up to the hidden storerooms near the top of the tower, accessible only via tightly spiraling staircases and hidden crawlspaces and ladders, seems like too much trouble to be worth the gain. She doesn't want to go back to the dorms either. How many words can you scrawl down on paper that will never be read, how many drawings can you start and then give up on, before the pointlessness of it all crushes you?

Instead, she steals down to the dungeons. She argues about it with herself, voices clattering inside her head: _What are you doing? What are you hoping to accomplish?_

She has no idea how to answer those voices. She doesn't _know_ what she's doing, she just knows what she wants. Sometimes. When you ask her at exactly the right minute.

She needs her friend, the one person who might understand how terrified she is, and how alone. Her fingers scrape the rough stone walls, and they feel icy cold when she clenches them into tight fists at her sides. It's so _dark_ down here, but she doesn't dare conjure a light.

She listens, but the sounds she hears are warped. Every minute background noise seems too loud, and no matter how much she strains, she cannot hear anything that will answer the questions that are jumbled in her brain.

She holds her breath for as long as she can, but the stuttering puffs of air she inhales in shallow gasps still echo back, overwhelmingly loudly. She can feel her mana pulling to the surface, bringing heightened awareness and a need for _action_ , a release for the energy coiled under her skin.

She stretches her senses, the internal more than the external, skimming the ripples of the Fade. She presses gently, leaving fingerprints at the edges of the Veil, gentle impressions that are quickly absorbed. But even this is enough to accelerate her heartbeat and fill her with a restless energy, ripping open a hole, a _need_ for more, a thirst she is desperate to quench.

She controls that thirst, burying it down deep inside of her, reacting to the pressure of temptation with walls of equal force. Her entire body hums, for a few brief heartbeats, until it reaches familiar equilibrium. The forces of magic rarely overwhelm her these days. They are more comfortable than frightening, even down here in the dark.

She quests out, feeling for Anders' presence. But all she touches is... nothingness, a blinding, painful wall. She recoils as if burned. Antimagic. But, of course, she knew that.

She chokes back a whimper, and stands frozen, uncertain whether to move forward, or to flee. She presses herself against the wall, cloaked by flickering shadow. She knows without needing to look that this narrow corridor will soon branch off and spiral away; the hall to the right will hit a few bare storerooms before ending abruptly, the hall to the left grows even more claustrophobic, sloping steeply _down_ , into the places she doesn't want to go.

She can hear the scrape of metal and the too-loud voices of guards, laughing with each other. Why should they keep quiet? They must think they're the only ones down here.

Two guards, always paired. Every day for a year.

Maybe they're getting slow and stupid. Rhyanon's been down here half an hour, and she's already feeling disoriented and desperate to get out. How long have they been here? Hours and hours at least – the tower isn't so overwhelmed with templars that all that many could be spared to guard a prison cell that most people don't even know about.

Rhyanon boosts her own confidence as she weighs the risks, running calculations in her head... she could break Anders out. The two of them could run, just run forever. They could be free.

 _What are you doing here?_ scream the voices of her insecurity in her head. _What do you think you can do?_

 _Nothing_ , she replies immediately, in not-quite-spoken words. Her lips wrap around the shape of the murmuring whisper as she talks to herself, but the sound doesn't carry. She can't do anything... can she?

She shakes her head, knowing that her doubts, while comfortable and familiar, aren't true, not really. She _can_ do something. She knows how to fight – with and without magic, she's been practicing for years because they _make_ her. And she's been pushing herself harder than she ever has before, with Stephen's help. If she tried to take down Anders' two guards, she _might_ win. It's only fear that stops her.

She watches the two armored men, catching their movements in the flickering torchlight. She keeps her body pressed against the wall, hidden behind a corner. She concentrates on keeping her magic hidden – they won't notice it unless they're really trying, not unless she does something stupid like actively cast. It makes her nervous though. She's spent too many years being judged as guilty even _without_ doing something as obviously suspicious as lurking in a restricted area. The templars can't read her thoughts – she knows that – but it doesn't stop her from anticipating that they might catch her at any moment. A possibility that only grows more likely the longer she stands here debating it.

She watches the guards, trying to actively read their threat, but she can't tell much about them, not in the dark, not this far away. They're slouching, tired, but that's no reason to assume they're not doing their job.

Rhyanon licks her lips, trying to figure out if she's really brave enough to do this. Then she clears her throat quietly, and pushes into the small pool of light. The bigger templar glances up, immediately tense, hand on his sword.

Rhyanon swallows. He's not actually going to _attack_ her, is he?

"What're you doing here, girl?"

Rhyanon meets the templar's eyes through his helmet, projecting a sense of security she doesn't feel. She won't let him see her falter.

Irving has told her she's good at this – diplomacy, a different kind of fighting. Anders has told her, too – that when she talks, people listen. She just has to believe them. She has to believe in herself _because_ of them.

She draws herself to her full height, and announces, with a calm, steady voice. "Greagoir said I could see him."

One of the templars – the younger, more rash one – shakes his head.

"Are you going to override the Knight Commander's orders?" She _pushes_ , just a little, a subtle influence on his already sluggish thoughts.

But not subtle enough.

The man lashes out with a Smite, sending Rhyanon staggering.

"If you're so eager to find your way into these cells, I can oblige," the man sneers. Rhyanon crawls backward, slamming against the wall. She shakes her head.

"I'm sorry," she whines. Tears sting her eyes. She's more pissed at herself than pissed at them. She's angry at how scared they can make her. She doesn't even fight them. What would be the point?

"You should be sorry," the man growls.

"Leave her alone," the other templar volunteers nervously.

"I'll send her to the Knight Commander," the nameless voice spits, as he slams Rhyanon against the stone wall. "See how he feels about the girl forging his orders."

He lets go of her, suddenly, pushing her forward, away from the reach of the torchlight. But Rhyanon breathes again. Gregoir might listen. And even if he doesn't, she trusts him. She fears what he'll do a lot less than what these unwatched men might do, alone in the dark.

The atmosphere in the Knight Commander's office is tense. It always is, but it's a thousand times more uncomfortable when the miscreant they're arguing about is _her_. They talk about her like she's not even there, it's annoying. But it might be slightly better than trying to figure out what to say if they ask her what she was thinking. Rhyanon tries to make herself as small as possible, standing next to Greagoir's desk as Irving tries to speak for her. She traces her fingernail into the deep grooves of wood spiraling and cracking under the surface.

"You let the girl get away with too much, Irving. As have I. She needs to learn." Greagoir isn't angry – his voice is calm. But Rhyanon damn well knows that doesn't mean much for her. He's always calm when he does his job; it doesn't make the punishments hurt any less.

"Like Anders has learned," Irving challenges. Rhyanon looks up, just in case. But Irving's protest lacks conviction, and she can tell. It fills her stomach with a churning, empty hole that hurts. The First Enchanter's basically given up on Anders, and they all know it. He's probably given up on her too.

She's not a little kid anymore. She's on her own. Honestly, she's surprised it took this long. She tries as hard as she can to block the worry and helplessness radiating out from her mentor – more of a father than her real father ever was. She knew what she was doing, Greagoir is right about that. She looks the Knight Commander in the eye, daring him, without words, to do his worst.

"Solitary," Greagoir orders.

"You can't..." Irving starts.

"Yes. I. Can." The Knight Commander growls. "I can, and I will. This isn't a game." He turns toward Rhyanon, and her heart sinks as Greagoir tells her – still calm – that her curiosity has consequences. It isn't a punishment so much as an object lesson, but still, anticipation batters at the inside of her stomach, like fluttering wings.

This is what she wanted, isn't it? To get down into the underground cells, so Anders wouldn't be alone. If he can survive it, so can she. She's stronger than they think.

She holds onto that false confidence as they lock her in, alone in an unused hall that twists down in the depths of the stone tower. The cell isn't so bad. There is almost enough space between the bars to stick her hand through, and those bars let in air and a sense of space, if not light. There is both a pallet and a bucket for her to relieve herself. When she closes her eyes, she can feel time passing by, constricting closer. She crawls onto the pallet, and stares at the ceiling.

The loneliness is too familiar to be disconcerting, at least at the start. It's the uncertainty that gets to her. She doesn't let herself sleep. She listens instead, stretching for every sound. The fear she feels grows heavier and more intense with every passing minute that something _doesn't_ happen, until it turns into a pervasive, heavy dread. She cracks her knuckles. She counts her breaths. Her cell isn't warded. She can feel the templars nearby, too close and too far all at once. They haven't hurt her, and they won't. But this punishment is doing its job, and that bothers her too. Greagoir is getting exactly what he wants.

The hours pass infinitely slowly, she feels like she can count each individual heartbeat, each breath. Every sound makes her jump, every time the templar patrol passes by, she gathers her mana, calling it to her. She doesn't let go.

They shackle her only when her sentence is ended, when they shove her, stumbling, back up to the apprentice dorms. In the early hours of the evening, they're not empty. She wishes that they were. It hasn't been long – a day, maybe two. Not long, but long enough.

Some whisper in her mind remembers the long-time-ago when Anders came back from his first time in solitary, how rattled he was then, how she didn't know how to approach him. The laughter of the younger children seems too loud, it feels _wrong_. An anger rises up in her, a desperate need to scream and snap at them. A little boy with wide blue eyes and a trembling lip flees from her, ducking into a corner to hide. Rhyanon sighs in exasperation, clenching her fingers into a tight fist. Adrenaline floods her, but her skull is still buzzing with a sleepy fog of confusion.

She wants to talk to Irving, the one person left in her life who might be able to let her pretend that this is a safe place. But she knows that would just be perpetuating a lie, so she avoids him. She tells herself he wouldn't be any help anyway. Irving doesn't lie to her, even when she wants him to.

She goes to the library instead, though she's spent enough time alone – both in and out of the punishment cell – that she's incapable of escaping into the written word now. Reality pulls at her: voices, hushed laughter. She sits at a table close to where one of the younger Harrowed mages is attempting to tutor a small group of recent arrivals. The children are young enough to still look wide-eyed at simple displays of power that will never be enough to get them out of here.

Rhyanon traces meaningless lines onto her notepaper, chewing on her lip. She's afraid of herself, afraid of the gamble that she's lost and afraid of what it means. What if she's ruined everything? It scares her that she wouldn't change it. She'll keep launching herself against the immovable stone walls because at least it's a kind of motion.

When she shows up at Irving's office, unable to avoid it anymore, he does not speak to her. His disapproval is palpable. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

He only shakes his head. "What were you thinking?"

"I... wasn't."

"I know." His voice is hard, as if that is the end of the conversation.

Rhyanon recoils. "I'm sorry," she spits out again. And then she retreats from the room, as quickly as she can manage. It feels worse than if he'd yelled at her. She needs somewhere safe, she needs _someone_ to talk to. She needed him to invite her in, not lecture her. She's on the edge of breaking, afraid of even minor rejections because _all she is is alone_.

She's _done_. She is so fucking done with this place!

She starts to understand Anders a little better, how holding things inside becomes the only way to hold yourself together, how solitary clings to you. It isn't that bad for her, she can shake it off, because her time down in the dark was just a warning, no true punishment, and she knows it. It's a warning she didn't need; she already feels the constriction of this place, the walls closing in around her. She can feel the claustrophobic pressure of not being allowed to fall apart, when that's all she wants to do.

The ghosts and silence follow her no matter where she goes, no matter what she does or doesn't do. She slips into the dorms again, the empty bathrooms. People hide in here all the time, when they need to pretend there's a such thing as privacy, when they need to gossip, or cry. No one will bother her in here, by mutual agreement. She fills the tub farthest away from the bathroom door, watching the water swirl and steam, and then she climbs inside. She tries desperately not to think. It doesn't much work.

Time passes, until the water in the tub is cold as ice. Rhyanon barely notices. She drags the dagger across her skin, watching white lines turn to red, accompanied by a sharp pinprick of pain. She bites her lip to compensate, making sure that she remains silent even as she shivers in the shallow pool of deepening red around her naked body. She can't remember when she started carrying a knife with her everywhere. A long time ago, when she started to realize that their promise not to hurt her was bullshit. A long time ago, when she went digging through the stash under Anders' bed, looking for something to hold onto. The weapon feels comfortable in her hand, more comfortable still as she presses it down deeper, pulling it through her flesh.

 _You don't want to die_ , whisper the voices in her head. She blocks them out. _There is a way out_ , they sing.

She thrashes and shakes her head and kicks, flailing and sending up small waves in the cold bathtub. "There _isn't,_ " she snaps. She screams out loud. Even hurting herself doesn't hurt enough, she doesn't feel anything, except for flickers here and there; flickers of pain, and cold.

The sensations that touch her are the ones that aren't real. She hears a sarcastic laugh that sounds too familiar, but she also feels a gentle touch.

 _Look_ , that unplaceable voice insists. **_**Feel**_**.

Rhyanon glances down at the gradient of damp, swirling color. White and pink and red. Her breathing begins to accelerate into a shallow gasping that doesn't provide enough oxygen as she begins to panic. Her head spins, and she grasps desperately, her fingertips scrabbling against the slippery smooth tile. She sinks backward and her head _smacks_ hard, against the thick edge of the tub. The echo of her own impact rings loud in her ears. Her arm stings with fiery pain as the soapy water mingles with the blood of her raw wounds; but she holds onto that. The pain keeps her awake. _Feel_.

She looks down, and draws in a ragged breath that she holds onto with as much force as she holds onto the new awareness that is almost too strong to put into words: _I don't want to die_. _I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to..._

She pulls on what she has; colors, and pain, and blood. She pulls on it, and it strengthens her.

The scars remain, but they close into smooth white lines, too fast, without her direction or control. She suddenly feels _everything,_ more strongly than she has in years.

She can feel the tiny breezes that blow in the windowless room, the humidity clinging to her skin, the resonant vibrations that echo off of the tile, the ripples of the water. She feels like she can _breathe_ , really breathe, in a way she can't remember since she came to the Tower. Maybe not even then.

She isn't scared anymore. She feels powerful.

"What the hell are you thinking?!"

She shakes her head, shocked awake. Emotions spike through her, too tangled and complex to name, they swirl together into a panic. "Don't tell," she babbles.

"Of course I'm not gonna _tell_." Stephen whispers, as he hugs her close. "Maker, Rhyanon. I'm trying to help you."

"What are you doing here?" Her thoughts are heavy and confused. Feelings are easier, she doesn't have to explain them or assign them names, she just has to ride them.

"Why didn't you talk to me?" Stephen asks, instead of answering her question.

Rhyanon doesn't answer either. She just shakes her head, and lets him hold her. He drains the bath before she can stop him, and wraps her in a towel. "Do you want to talk?" he asks carefully.

"No. Yes. I don't know."

"Talk," he orders, holding her gaze.

"Tell me what happened when you left the tower," she demands. It seems important, though she cannot pinpoint why.

Stephen holds his breath, and Rhyanon waits; for him to tell her not to deflect, for him to skirt around the issue. But then he nods. He doesn't let go of her, and his touch is warm and safe and stable. And he talks. "I was just a kid," he reminds her. "Well, older than you. But not half as mature. I'd just passed my Harrowing and I thought that meant I could do anything, you know?"

He waits for Rhyanon to answer, as though maybe she _doesn't_ know. But she's smart – smart enough to know that even after you've passed their test, the templars still make the rules.

A tiny flutter of butterfly wings presses beneath Rhyanon's ribcage. She wants to ask the questions she knows he won't be able to answer – the questions Jowan did not ask either, even though they could have saved him. _Why didn't he tell me?_ She'd asked herself a thousand times when the boy she'd once called friend decided to choose Tranquility over continued confusion and loss. But this is why. What good does _telling_ do?

Stephen has mentioned the Harrowing before, warned her that she's close, but Rhyanon is afraid; afraid she's broken the rules beyond repair, afraid that her one chance may be stolen before it's ever offered.

Stephen squeezes her hand as Rhyanon sets her shoulders. She waits, for what seems an eternity, but he does not continue to speak. "I know," she finally replies. Both because she _does_ know, and because her response seems to matter, to him. Her spoken words are a necessary prompt. He nods, and traces his fingertip over her knee.

Maybe she doesn't agree with his assessment – her experiences won't _let_ her agree, but she understands that most people, at the age she is now, view the Harrowing with a kind of reverence, a belief, a _hope_ that it will change things. It _has to,_ because what else do they have? She doesn't fault a younger Stephen for believing in that promise, and she tells him so.

"I was transferred to the White Spire, for a few years. From there, sent to Jader. Maker knows why."

"You're a good fighter," Rhyanon reminds him.

Stephen shrugs. "Sure. But there was no war to fight. I was sent because my Ferelden heritage would likely have seemed less threatening to those in the border town. And I was _needed_ because of a fast-spreading plague killing many in the farms and outlying villages."

Rhyanon frowns. "Not the cities?"

She's no healer, but she's paid enough attention to those who are to know that the close quarters of the slums and alienages are where illnesses cluster and spread.

Stephen shakes his head. "Not yet," he spits angrily. "And not ever. I'm not a _healer_ , Rhyanon, you said it yourself. I'm a firestarter."

Cold dread settles in the pit of Rhyanon's stomach, an awareness that radiates outward in a painful burst. She doesn't respond, because what in the Void is she supposed to say?

Stephen doesn't have to tell her anymore, her mind has already filled in all of the details. He seems to know it too.

"It's not your fault," she tells him uncertainly.

"Maybe," he agrees, less than helpfully. "Maybe not. Are we the slaves they try to make us?"

The question suddenly feels very, _very_ important. And "I don't know," is the only answer Rhyanon can give.

"Yes, you do," Stephen tells her, as he heals the scars across her wrists, to draw no suspicion.

"Only if we let them," she decides.

Stephen nods, with a determined smile on his face. "I don't plan on ever letting them again. And you're a lot smarter than I was at your age."

"There are probably a few people who wouldn't agree with you there."

"They're probably wrong," he tells her, his smiler growing wider as he relaxes.

Rhyanon isn't so sure, and the guardedness of her stance reflects her hesitation. Stephen notices – of course he does. He tucks her hair back behind her ear, and won't let her break away from his gaze. "Your turn to talk," he reminds her. He won't let her get away with _not_. Rhyanon blows out a long breath.

"I wasn't trying to kill myself," she demands, in a too-quick rush of words. In truth, she isn't sure anymore. Maybe she was and maybe she wasn't. Either way it doesn't matter now. If she was trying, she didn't succeed. And she won't try again.

Stephen doesn't try to confirm or deny her assertion. He simply waits. Rhyanon knows he means well, but she squirms anyway. She doesn't _know_ him, not really. How can she explain her actions when she doesn't even understand them herself?

"You feel trapped," Stephen whispers softly, and Rhyanon rolls her eyes because _of course she does_. She feels trapped because she _is_ trapped, and isn't that _obvious._ The anger suddenly flaring up inside her is familiar. It gives her a reaction, a direction to move, even if it's completely unhelpful.

She wants to react, but she steadies herself. She blows out a long breath. _You feel trapped._ "Don't you?" she asks carefully, instead of fighting.

Stephen holds her gaze. "Not as much as you'd think. This place does not have to be a prison."

"Easy for you to say."

He shakes his head. "Not easy at all."

Rhyanon nods. She understands. But what else _is_ there?

She remembers overhearing conversations among other mages who've long since been Harrowed, asking themselves if you could be trapped somewhere for long enough that it wasn't a trap anymore. Some of them seemed hopeful, but Rhyanon is almost certain now that those hopes were horribly misplaced.

She does what they tell her, even when everything inside of her wants to fight it. The whispers she's afraid to listen to, and even more afraid to voice, nag at her constantly. She wants to make things _better_. She's constantly looking for any possible way that she can, and coming up short. Nothing she does is good enough. But the turmoil, when it rages, is all inside.


	10. Pass/Fail

Someone Rhyanon doesn't recognize catches her eye, when she's not-exactly-hiding in the third floor alcove instead of going to class. The man, with dark skin and darker beard, is wearing leather armor. He's neither a templar nor a mage, yet he walks through these halls with complete confidence. He flashes her a smile, though his gaze is unblinking and serious.

"Who are you?" Rhyanon asks cautiously.

"My name is Duncan. And you are Rhyanon Amell, if I'm not mistaken."

Rhyanon frowns. "Irving told you about me?"

"He sent me looking for you."

"Why?"

Duncan leans back against the wall, letting his gaze flicker out the open arrow-slit window which is the reason Rhyanon comes up here. There isn't anything to see, just the courtyard she avoids looking at, but somehow Duncan seems to recognize the importance of the stolen snatch of sky all the same. It makes it easy for her to relax around him.

"I'm here recruiting for the Grey Wardens. The First Enchanter seemed to think I should meet you."

Rhyanon frowns. "I'm not even Harrowed," she points out. Questions crowd her mind as something like hope bubbles under the surface.

Duncan shrugs. "That isn't strictly required."

"What _is_ required?"

"Strength. Courage. Loyalty. A certain level of innate talent. There's a war coming, Rhyanon. I need fighters."

"What if I don't want to?" Rhyanon asks immediately.

"Then perhaps Irving was wrong."

"He wasn't."

Duncan smiles. "I suppose we'll find out."

Rhyanon watches the Grey Warden walk away. She's tempted to chase after him, but she wouldn't know what to say. She decides to go to the library instead. Studying suddenly seems a lot more important.

The library is nearly empty, with all the little kids in class. The quiet makes it impossible to focus. After reading the same sentence about six times without processing any of it, she slams the book shut and curls up in the chair. Her mind wanders, even more when she tries to force it not to.

She tenses up, alert to the awareness of someone watching her. Rhyanon feels it like a tingling at the back of her neck, a sense of pressure that she's never learned how to ignore.

She glances over her shoulder, catching the red-haired young templar staring at her. She stands up, gathering her books, and walks directly to him. "What do you want?" she demands.

She catches the way his eyes widen, offended by the harsh challenge in her tone. But he doesn't call her out on it. Instead, he shakes his head. "N-nothing," he stammers nervously. "I-I don't want... anything."

He's a templar. He could help her. The two facts scream at her at the same time, and they should cancel each other out, but they _don't_.

Rhyanon relaxes a little, like letting out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. She still watches the templar guardedly, but she's willing to trust that he is not actively working to harm her.

"Are you following me?" she asks softly.

"What? No!"

"You watch me, all the time!"

She makes it an accusation, even though of course he does. She's gotten used to looking for him. She feels... protected, when he's around. It's not like she doesn't know he's there. More like she does know, but it doesn't matter. When this one is watching, she feels safe. And that confusion makes her feel frustrated, angry at herself. They are _not_ on the same side. She forces herself to remember that.

The templar shakes his head slightly, a denial of the hostility she throws at him to protect herself. He walks away without even a mumbled excuse this time.

Rhyanon sits down at the nearest unoccupied table, and tries to figure out what it means that she doesn't hate him. She can't lie to herself well enough to pretend that things are as simply black-and-white as she sometimes wishes they could be. Black-and-white would make her life easier.

She could ask him for something. But he won't give her what she asks for. How could he? He's a templar. He's _not_ her friend.

"You alright?"

Rhyanon nods reflexively, though her stomach clenches, because the voice asking – the body sitting across from her – belongs to the _templar_ she's trying to ignore. He _is_ following her.

There's a squirming sensation under her skin. She doesn't want to get away from him. She knows she couldn't even if she wanted to.

The templar stares at her, unblinkingly. He is so pointedly not touching her that it feels more embarrasingly intimate than if he were.

She pulls herself away from him, spinning around to sit parallel to the table. She crouches on the edge of the chair, her muscles tight and tense, her hands clenched into fists. She scowls, not trusting herself to talk to him.

"I'm not supposed to tell you this," he says, more smoothly than she's ever heard him speak before – not that she's heard him a lot or anything. The illicit secret he promises makes her look up. His eyes are blue. Still and clear, like the springtime sky she barely remembers anymore. "Your Harrowing. It's gonna be tonight."

He sounds more nervous than she feels, and that makes Rhyanon curious. She clings to that – curiousity gives her something to focus on. She glances up before she can fully process the fact that she's _responding_ to him. She frowns slightly, trying to take in this new information, to come to terms with what it means. The Harrowing. She takes a deep and careful breath. The templar's eyes are still locked onto hers. She'd known it was coming, but still... she feels like she desperately needs more time. She's not _ready_.

"Is it because of the Grey Warden?" she finally asks.

"W-what? Why would it be?"

"I don't know. Never mind." Rhyanon ducks away again, letting her hair fall down in front of her face. Like a curtain. Or a shield.

"I'll be there, you know."

She nods, still not looking at him. He doesn't tell her _why_ he'll be there, obviously. He doesn't have to. She knows it's his job to kill her if she fails. She isn't even angry at him about it, that's just the way things are.

The templar walks away, and Rhyanon's glad he does. She scowls, gathering up her books. It's too late to matter anyway. The Harrowing won't be a book test. She doesn't know anything about it, but she knows that much. She wishes he hadn't given her the illicit warning – now, she has nothing to do but panic, for the next Maker-knows-how-many-hours. Her stomach twists itself into painful knots as she watches the quality of the light gradually change as the long afternoon drags through the tower. The little kids in the dorms seem to melt away as she approaches. Rhyanon wonders vaguely if that's a new thing; she can't tell. She can't remember. She ignores it, either way.

She climbs up to the bunk above hers, one no one has ever used for more than a few days, not in all the time she's been here. There is so much emptiness in this place – empty bunks, empty rooms, echoing halls. According to Wynne, there used to be a lot more mages here, a long time ago. A lot more mages and a lot less fear.

Rhyanon surveys the room from her higher-up perch. It seems different, but not different enough. The walls seem to squeeze too close, and she can't help but grasp for the fading memories of the others who aren't here anymore. She could ask for Tranquility. It's not too late. But just _thinking_ about it makes her feel sick. She won't. She'll fight – she'll _die_ – before that ever happens.

She wonders if she should've talked to more people. It's too late now, isn't it? Why does this feel like the end of everything?

She doesn't sleep that night, obviously. No one seems all that surprised about it when they come to collect her. Rhyanon rolls over onto her stomach, still dazed and tired, more disoriented than if they actually _had_ woken her up from dreaming. Her eyes are gritty with fatigue. There is a heightened sense of anticipation, a sharp pinprick of alertness, almost painful, at the edges of her perception. Like something she needs to grab onto, but she can't. It always slips away. It's there in the way the shadows fall, whisper-quiet.

"It's time," the templar whispers – that same familiar voice. He reaches out a hand to help her down from her bunk, but Rhyanon ignores it. She jumps down. A few feet away – too close and too far – one of the little kids whimpers and reaches out for something Rhyanon can't see. A feeling of bitter nostalgia washes through her. She's _not ready._ She thinks it might be easier if she knew for sure that she was going to die – she's not afraid of dying, which in itself is a little unsettling. It's the _not knowing_ that bothers her.

The comfortable gradations of afternoon light are gone now. This late, the halls of the tower are consistently black, haunted by shadows, lit only by flickering torchlight spread too far apart. Gone is the familiarity, it's not like Rhyanon makes a habit of wandering around in the middle of night. Now, this place only seems empty and echoing. It feels like the prison it is. The silence swallows her.

They take her to the very top of the tower, to a room she's never been in before. Somehow, that surprises her. She knows there's no reason for her to have assumed that the Harrowing would happen underground, but somehow, without consciously realizing it, some part of her had figured that it must. Because that's where people go to disappear.

Up here, there are more proper windows than anywhere else in the tower. Even in the middle of the night, there is a sense of openness. Pinpricks of starlight scatter all around her. Rhyanon stares at them; they pull at a long-deadened sense of wonder somewhere deep inside her.

She snaps back to reality as soon as Greagoir starts lecturing her about _paying attention_. He stares at her sternly and makes it obvious – as if it wasn't already - that she might die.  
Rhyanon lets her eyes flicker to Irving, who watches her while failing to hide the fact that he's nervous. She licks dry lips, unable to stop the voices in her head that wonder how many innocent children the First Enchanter has sent to their deaths in this room. How many favorites has he had before her?

The liquid light refracts from the lyrium-blue pool at the center of the room and almost swallows her. In this space, it seems like all of her senses are amplified; the silence nearly crushes her. Her footsteps are deafening, even though she walks softly, too afraid to move forward with any sense of haste. Sleep still clouds her mind.  
  
Irving's hand on her shoulder feels like an impossibly heavy weight, but when she tries to shrug him off, he does not respond to her wordless command. "Be ready," he tells her, and despite the softness in his voice, there is no doubting that it is an order. She yanks her arm away from him.

"I _am_ ready," she snaps.

She doesn't wait for them to tell her what to do. _You'll know_ , Anders had told her, what seems like several lifetimes ago. So she doesn't wait for orders. Her fingers skim through the lyrium in the shallow bowl in front of her, and her breathing quickens as she closes her eyes.  
The Fade catches her, as she falls. When she opens her eyes again, she's not awake, and she knows it. But she's not asleep either. The surreal humming pressure of the Fade hovers at the edges of her vision. It's brighter, sharper, clearer, and louder than it's ever been before. She takes a hesitant footstep down a path that forms itself as she walks it; her uncertainty and fear causes the world to constrict and spin.

"It's just a dream," she tells herself, repeating the words like a calming mantra. It isn't true though. When she was dreaming, _she_ could control the Fade, she could break away when it got too scary. Now, there is nothing between her and the voices, and she feels raw and exposed.

She sees flickering images, piercing shadows that remind her of the unreality of this place, which shapes itself around her and for her. She walks the vague, everchanging landscape, where things are foggy and too bright, and the light comes from wrong angles and are tinted in shades of green and gold that are never seen in the real world. She walks, and she holds her breath, and she listens. And she waits.

She hears warped human voices, a young child's screaming tantrum. Her heart rate picks up almost instantly, and she can't calm the panic tearing inside her chest, somehow she _knows_ that if this child doesn't _shut up_ then... what? What'll happen? She shakes her head. The answer doesn't come in words, it comes in flashes of pain and color: bitter elfroot, and a cold shock – a Smite. Rhyanon lifts her hand to her cheek, still throbbing with the sting a hard slap from a templar's open hand. A long time ago. So far away. She can smell the mix of ocean air and sour meat and body odor, sweat and vomit. She tries to twist away from the bone-crushing grip of the templar holding her forearm, leering down at her. When she was seven, she couldn't get away. But she isn't seven now.

She lashes out, with a spell she's cast a thousand times before, bolts of lightning that radiate outward from her skin. She delights in the feeling of power that rushes over her. But she miscalculates. She is no longer pulling magic _from_ the Fade, through limiters and barriers and walls. Magic _is_ the Fade, and in here, all the rules she used to know no longer apply. She's spent her entire lifetime learning how to _be in control_ , but now, suddenly, she isn't. Panic overtakes her in a blinding rush: she cries out, and falls. She pulls away from the imaginary-real templar, but the consequence of her casting lingers in the smell of ozone and ash. There is no skeleton to mark whether she killed the man – maybe she _didn't._ It's impossible to tell. There's nothing but the warped deck of a ship on a churning grey ocean. The water laps calmly against the hull. It feels almost real, except for the green-tinted sky.

Rhyanon stands there, dazed and shaken.

This _isn't fair._

"What do you want?" she asks aloud. Her voice only shakes a little bit. It echoes through the emptiness.

"That's not your question," answers a soft, familiar voice.

Rhyanon frowns. "You're not real," she accuses.

Stephen smiles, and shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"You're _not,_ " she demands stubbornly. He materialized out of _thin air,_ for the Maker's sake. Nothing in here is real.

"Still, you're seeing me. Why do you think that is?"

"I don't _know_ ," she snaps. What's the right answer? What is she supposed to say?

"You can trust me, Rhyanon."

"No I can't!"

She screams it, and Stephen's eyes widen with... fear? Is he afraid of her? Rhyanon's stomach clenches, but the buzz of adrenaline and lyrium flooding through her overpowers the barriers that might have stopped her from acting.

And Stephen's face contorts into something unreal, a snarling, angry beast, reflecting her anger back at her, a thousand times as strong.

Fear and sudden recognition stir in Rhyanon – this isn't Stephen. It's not anything as benign as a memory or a whisper either. This isn't anything human.

Rhyanon is aware of nothing but her thundering heartbeat, and her panic. She steels herself against the demon's attack, but the monster does nothing; it only seems to wait. She falters, struggling to catch her breath. What is she supposed to _do_?

 _You have to fight,_ screams the voice in her head, every instinct in her body. She has to fight for her survival; if she doesn't, it will be the end of everything.

She takes a deep breath, and charges forward. Her fingers scrabble for a weapon, but that's only a reflex – she doesn't fight with a sword, she never has. Mana coils like lightning around her fingers. She launches the crackling energy outward.

"Leave me alone," she demands.

The demon laughs, and smiles, still wearing a warped mask of Stephen's face.

"That's your job, isn't it?"

When she looks up again, the face isn't Stephen's but - "Anders," she whispers. She can barely force the word out. Her throat is so dry. She swallows hard.

He's _right_ , isn't he? He's not the only one who's broken promises. She's alone because he is, because if she was any kind of real friend, she'd have... what? Stopped him? Gone with him? She's tried for years to follow him, and she only ended up here.

She studies his familiar features, contorted with pain that suddenly becomes real, when pain hits _her_ , blinding, like fire through every nerve. In her moment of indecision, the demon has made its move. Its laughter reverberates through her skull, and it sounds too much like Anders – like the carefree, joking boy she used to know. "Come on, Melly," he teases lightly, with a gentle touch on her shoulder. "Isn't this what you want?"

She shakes her head, and _pushes_ him away. "You're not him," she demands.

Anger flashes through the demon's caramel eyes, and the smile disappears from its false face.

"And you're not what you pretend to be either," it snarls. "You hide your strength, even from yourself. But do you really believe such lies will protect you?"

She stands her ground, waiting, but the demon does not attack her again. It seems like it expects her to make a choice.

She shakes her head. She's done with lying. She's done with hiding. She's just _done_.

She makes her choice.

* * *

When she opens her eyes, her templar is holding her. Wild panic is visible on his face.

Rhyanon pulls herself out of his grasp, desperately seeking... something. Some anchor to latch onto.

"What are you doing, boy?" Greagoir barks out.

"She didn't _fail!_ I would know."

Rhyanon shakes away the dizzy uncertainty and fear flooding her system. She scrambles backward – still too weak to stand. "I _didn't_ fail," she repeats. She wouldn't be alive if she had. Right?

She wrenches herself away from the templars who have condemned her without evidence. Lyrium still pulses in her veins, along with the determined certainty she gained in the Harrowing. She _passed,_ no matter what they say.

Dizziness competes with her _need_ to stay standing. She's a survivor. She knows that now. She _will not_ let them take anything else away from her. Here, locked inside stone walls, she cannot shape the world to her will. She's known that from the start; they've taken that from her, but the knowledge she pulled from their test of character tells her that what she's _known_ is wrong. Magic is easy, it comes from inside her. She's just forgotten that.

_Feel. Live. You don't want to die._

She shakes her head. No. She really doesn't.

She fights, reacting to words before they're said, to blades before they're drawn. She doesn't think. She _wills_ , transfering intent into action, lashing out to protect herself. She can't afford to be slowed down by the fear of what might happen. When the sword, in trembling hands, comes toward her throat, she doesn't _let it_.

She feels the warmth of the blood in her palm, the droplets coagulating. She feels the rush of certain power. And she _pushes_. Someone screams, she hears the echoes in the air. It feels like something far away, like nothing to do with her.

Her breathing is frantic, her senses skewed. She doesn't _feel_ anything. She's bleeding. That should hurt, right?

Someone grabs her, and she flails against them, fighting the pressure of their hold. Someone is talking to her, but she can't make sense of their words.  
  
 _No_ , her inner voice screams, a nagging claw of doubt, guilt, _awareness_. What did she just do? _No, no, no_...  
  
She needs more _time_ , she needs to survive, she needs someone to _listen_. "I didn't mean it!" she cries.  
  
Is there anyone left _to_ listen?

The haze of confusion slowly lifts, leaving an unsettled churning in the pit of her stomach in the aftermath. The templar, who must've been ordered to kill her, is now no threat – he's collapsed against a far wall, there are streaks of blood visible. Rhyanon wonders if he's dead. Did she kill him? She can't tell. She's afraid to go and check, even if she could, and she knows that no one would let her. She's doomed herself. She's failed after all.

She sets her jaw, sullen and afraid, but determined not to admit it.

She's been screaming for someone to pay attention to her for far too long. Somehow, before she could realize it, before she could _stop_ it, she got too angry to be scared. And too angry to be careful. She crossed a line without thinking about it. She crossed the most important line ever drawn, without _caring_.

"I _need_ her," the Grey Warden called Duncan demands.

Rhyanon spins around to look at him. Where the hell did he come from? She backs away from him, afraid of what he's seen. He looks at her with determined calculation. _I need her_. What for?

"She is a _maleficar_ ," Greagoir snaps. "Her life is forfeit!" Rhyanon can hear the wounded betrayal in his voice, the fear. Some part of her – a part she _really_ doesn't like – laughs cruelly. He's afraid of her. _Good_.  
  
The look in his eyes is pure cold steel, but Rhyanon holds his gaze. She isn't afraid of him anymore. What's the point of being afraid, now? She knows he'll kill her without hesitation, and she knows that when he does, she'll deserve it. She _wants_ to die, and she doesn't, and the hesitation in those conflicting and equally strong desires holds her still, leaving her life in the hands of the men looming over her.

She bites her lower lip, and curls her hand into a tight fist, hiding the already-healing cut across her palm.

 _Maleficar_. Is that what she is? She was only fighting to survive. _They_ taught her how. She used what she had, when all else was taken away.

"The Grey Wardens cannot afford for _anyone's_ life to be forfeit," Duncan says softly. His gravely voice washes over her, sparking a flickering flame of hope. He's talking _about_ her, not to her, but she listens, clinging to his words like a drowning man to a thrown rope. "If you give her to me, her life can save many. I will not allow you to waste it."

"You can't -"

"I invoke the Right of Conscription!" Duncan barks, loudly and insistently, over the Knight Commander's protests.

Rhyanon shrinks backward. She tries to _think_ , but she can't really get past the certainty that she's going to _die_. The last moments of her life are ticking steadily away. Aren't they?

"What does that mean?" she asks shakily.

"It means you're going to be a Grey Warden," Duncan announces, without taking his eyes off of Greagoir.

"You can't -"

"You can't stop me."

Rhyanon finds herself watching the exchange in open-mouthed fascination. Her panic has begun to ebb, even though everything she thought she knew about the world is shattering around her. Greagoir holds the Grey Warden's hard stare, as Rhyanon barely breathes. They're talking about her like she's not even there!

"Take her," Gregoir spits.

Rhyanon lets the Grey Warden herd her out of the Tower. His hand on her shoulder, as he helps her settle into the tiny ferry boat, feels heavy. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm not a maleficar," she demands.

"I have larger worries," Duncan admits. Unlike most of the authority figures she's known, he does not try to threaten her into talking, or force her to submit. Instead, he watches her. He waits. For what, Rhyanon has no idea, but she's accutely aware that this isn't the kind of watching where someone is waiting for her to show weakness. Instead, it's an acknowledgment of her strength. She's seventeen years old, she hasn't left this island in ten years, but he came here looking for a hero, and he got her. And despite the dark shadows of worry that are all too obvious, flickering in his dark eyes and in the drawn lines of his face, he doesn't seem disappointed. "I saw you fight for your own survival," he announces gravely, as their rowboat cuts through the icy churning waters. Rhyanon watches her breath coalesce in small clouds. She shivers, drawing her cloak tighter around herself. "You didn't care about the consequences," Duncan adds. His voice is softer now, thoughtful. Rhyanon almost can't hear it over the whistles of the wind. It's not a question, but she nods anyway. Since she was seven years old, they've been looking for a reason to kill her. She _won't let them_. Duncan nods too, and in the motion she recognizes determination. She sees a man who has made a choice. A man who has _given her_ a choice. "Will you do the same for others?" he asks, as he rows. "Will you fight for the survival of the world?"

"Yes," she replies immediately, with fierce certainty. "You said you need a fighter. I can be that for you."


End file.
